


The Emperor and the Messiah, Part I

by Atiaran



Series: Samantha [8]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3, Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Crossover, Fallout 3 x Fallout: New Vegas, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2019-09-26 21:04:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 41,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17149046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atiaran/pseuds/Atiaran
Summary: A Fallout 3/Fallout New Vegas crossover. Several years after the events of Fallout: New Vegas, a broken and defeated Caesar's Legion attempts an invasion of the Capital Wasteland. The Lone Wanderer is there to meet them. Female Lone Wanderer, named Samantha. This is canon with my Fallout 3 fics, not with my Fallout: New Vegas fics. Also it is not Fallout 4-compatible. Part 1 of 3.





	1. Chapter 1

**Standard disclaimer:** Places and characters such as Caesar, Aurelius, Butch,  etc. in this story are not mine, but are instead the property of Bethesda Game Studios.  No copyright infringement is intended by their use in this story.

 **Author’s note:** Okay, so this is it: the first chapter of Part I of my Fallout 3/Fallout New Vegas crossover.  This entire part is written already and I will be posting it as it is betaed.  I think this is kind of a boring part, mostly setup, but it’s written and I wanted to get it up so here it is.  Parts II and III are probably each about half written, but I’m just getting this one up now.  Enjoy.

 

* * *

 

 _“In spite of all_  
The things that were  
I started to  
Believe in her … “

\--Chris, _Miss Saigon_

* * *

 

**PART I:**

The dented, battery-operated camp lantern on the washstand was almost dead, judging by its weak flicker.  Tapping it produced no improvement: the light blinked out for a second before feebly coming on again. With a grimace, Arcade abandoned the attempt to get any sort of steady illumination from the thing; he peered into the cracked mirror and set the safety razor--all that Caesar would allow him--against his throat.  The razor was very dull; he’d already nicked himself twice.  In the background, the radio he’d been given was on, its tinny sound filling the tent; Arcade let it play, half-listening, as he struggled with the razor:

_“--Threee-ee-ee Dog, comin at ya live from the downtown DC Ruins, here in beautiful Post-Apocalyptia.  And I’ve got some great news for ya, boys and girls; that’s right, as you can hear, GNR is back on the air, thanks once again to the timely intervention of our very own home-grown hero, Little Miss Vault One-Oh-One.  *chuckle*  Of course, maybe I should stop calling her that by now; after all, she’s no longer little, and--if the news I have out of Tenpenny Tower is good--not even a ‘Miss’ anymore.  That’s right y’all, the sound you hear is the sound of hearts breaking wide open all over the Wastes tonight.  A big congratulations to the former leader of the Tunnel Snakes, Mister DeLoria, for finally winning the hand and the heart of the Capital Wasteland’s own most eligible bachelorette.  If it doesn’t work out, One-Oh-One, well, you know where to find me.  *chuckle*  Just kidding, folks; seriously, we’re wishing you two lovebirds every happiness.”_

The razor slipped again, and Arcade cursed softly as a trickle of blood began to snake its way down his throat, toward the gleaming metal ring of his collar.  Dropping the razor on the washstand, he fumbled for the antiseptic as Three Dog went on in the background:

 _“Wow, folks, can you believe it’s been fifteen years since One-oh-One climbed out of the Vault and devoted her life to making the Wastes a better place?  Where_ does _the time go?  For those of my listeners who are too young to remember, the Wastes were truly a mess back then: Raiders were everywhere, slavers holed up in Paradise Falls, feral ghouls infesting the underground metro, Super-Mutants in Downtown DC, Deathclaws in Old Olney--you couldn’t walk from Megaton to Springvale without taking a chance of eating some lead.  And now look at the place!  Clean water for everyone, thanks to the success of Project Purity; regular caravans from Rivet City to the Republic of Rosie; the roads are clear all the way out to Vault 87, and a new settlement in Tenpenny Tower, with ghouls, humans and super-mutants all living together in peace and harmony…and it’s all thanks to her.  The Hero of the Wastes.  The Last, Best Hope for Humanity.  The Messiah.”_

The antiseptic stung, and Arcade winced as he dabbed at the cut.  Outside, he could hear the guard growing impatient. 

“Two more minutes, doctor, and then you’re coming, ready or not,” the guard called in roughly. 

Cursing again, Arcade picked up the razor.

 _“In the years since she joined us, there’s been Enclave, Supermutants, slavers, Talon Company, Enclave again, Commonwealth, Outcasts, Raiders, more Enclave, and yet every time we’ve beaten them all.   And now, from the West, here comes this new racket:  ‘Caesar’s Legion,’ they call themselves, claiming they’re like those ancient Romans.  Well, I’m here to tell y’all, my loyal listeners, no matter how they may try to dress it up, underneath it’s still the same old Brahmin shit.  It’s all part of the same fight, boys and girls: the Good Fight.  I know you’ve all heard me talk about the Good Fight before--the fight for the little guy, for the people who are just trying to get by, to make it day to day in the world we live in, and_ against _anyone who would make it harder on those who have it hard enough as it is.  Well, it’s no less true now.  And it’s no less important.  Have no fear, boys and girls; if we stand true, if we stand together, we’ll send these clowns packing just like everyone else.  We can do it.  And we’ve got our beacon, our shining light, our Messiah, to guide us.  ‘One-Oh-One is my shepherd, I shall not want.’  My brothers and sisters, never fear.  Have courage-- We will beat them.”_

 _“On les aura,”_ Arcade muttered bitterly. 

_“Little Miss Vault One Oh One, my hero, this one’s for you. Your favorite song.  Bob Crosby’s ‘Way Back Home.’_

_“Don’t know why I left the homestead_  
I really must confess  
I’m a weary exile  
Singing my song  
Of loneliness….”

His mouth twisting, Arcade shut off the radio with a snap.  He stared at himself in the mirror.

The man looking back at him from the cracked glass was not the slim, handsome young man who had been sold to Caesar so many years ago.  Time and servitude, suffering and indignity had taken their toll.  The bright blonde hair that had been his secret pride had dulled and was shot through with streaks of gray; his eyes were haunted, his face gaunt and haggard.  He was no longer young; he was approaching forty-six, but, he thought, he looked at least ten years older.

The guard looked in through the tent flap. 

“Time’s up, doctor.  Are you coming, or do I have to drag you?”

“I’m coming, I’m coming.”  With a sigh, he stepped out of his small tent, following the guard out into the Legionary encampment.

* * *

 

The command tent was only a few steps from the small tent Caesar had given Arcade; as he entered the audience room, he saw that everyone else was already there.  The imperator’s praetorians lined the room’s walls, ballistic fists at the ready, along with the chieftains, Alerio, Aurelius of Phoenix, Vulpes Inculta, and the rest.  Caesar himself was sprawled on a camp chair in the middle of the tent.

As harsh as time had been to him, Arcade had often mused, it had been absolutely brutal to his master.  Caesar was no longer the rangy, whipcord thin fighting man he had been when Arcade had first been sold to him, so many years ago.  He had grown immensely fat, so obese he could no longer fit into armor; his bulk threatened to overflow the confines of the chair in which he sat.  He turned to look at Arcade as he approached, and the good side of his face twitched.

“ _Iuvenis_ ,” Caesar slurred. “Took s’long, w’s won’rin ‘f you ‘re comin ‘t all.”

 _You took so long, I was wondering if you were coming at all,_ Arcade mentally translated.  Caesar had suffered a stroke seven years ago that had left him with severely limited mobility on the right side of his body; Arcade had done his best to restore function – which wasn’t much, given his severely limited resources.  He sometimes wondered, with little interest, whether things would have been different if Caesar had not had the stroke; he doubted it though.   He moved to take his customary place behind Caesar--

“Stop.”   Caesar reached out one hand; his left, for his right hand was nearly useless. His one good eye narrowed dangerously.  “No.  You -- go _there_.”  And he indicated the ground by the side of the chair.

Arcade understood at once: Caesar wished him to kneel.  He supposed distantly that Caesar must still be displeased at him, for “contradicting” him in front of the chieftains three days ago.  Arcade had meant no contradiction, but Caesar had taken it as such, and nothing he’d said had been able to retrieve the situation.  Caesar was touchier than ever, since Lanius’s death; no one-- _no one_ \--dared cross him.   In any case, there was nothing to do but obey.  And it could have been worse; it _had_ been worse, before. 

Carefully, he lowered himself to the ground, clasping his hands in front of him.  The ground dug into his knees, and he shifted slightly. Peripherally, he saw the corner of Vulpes’s mouth lift in a cold smile.  It didn’t matter, though; Arcade sometimes thought he was beyond truly feeling anything these days. The shock collar was cool against his throat.

Now, his master turned to Vulpes Inculta.  “Heard…th’ news,” he slurred.  “C’ngrat’lations.   Son, I take it?”

 _That’s right,_ Arcade remembered distantly; Vulpes’s slave “wife” Vipsania had been pregnant, and very near her time.  He had not been allowed to treat her, of course; Vulpes would not permit any man that kind of access to his wife, even if Caesar would have allowed it.  The slave midwife Siri had been caring for her, and he’d seen enough of Siri’s work to know that she was extremely skilled.  It had been Siri that had tended to him, after….  _After_.

The thin-faced praetorian shook his head.  Something flickered on his narrow features behind his dark glasses.  Arcade knew that Vulpes had an eye condition that made it difficult to face bright light without blinking -- one reason why he wore his sunglasses in places where others of his rank might not. “Only a daughter, my lord.”

Caesar gave a rough laugh.  “Ah well.  Better luck nex’ time.  Leas’ now we know th’ bitch c’n breed, ‘m I right?”

Again, that flicker.  Vulpes Inculta nodded.  “We shall see,” he said, taking up his usual position behind Caesar’s right shoulder.  Caesar chuckled and glanced over at Alerio.

“An’ you, ‘lerio,” he slurred.  “Y’ haven’ been ‘roun in a while.  Tha’ new young scribe o’ y’rs keepin ya busy?”

Alerio went very still.  “What do you mean, Lord Caesar?” he asked carefully.

Caesar gave a rough laugh.  “You know.  Havin t’ show ‘im the ropes, get ‘im up t’ speed on ‘s duties an’ all that.  How’s he coming along?”

Arcade watched Alerio’s face closely; Alerio hesitated, then evidently decided to respond as if the comment was as innocuous as it seemed. “I think he’s mostly learned now.  I hope my performance of my duties has been satisfactory during this time.”

Caesar gave that laugh again.  “Ya got nothin to worry ‘bout, ‘lerio.  Nothin at all.  Y’ been doin … fine job.  Never fear.”

Alerio subtly relaxed, as did the rest of the room. Arcade had been around long enough to understand why.

One thing that had really surprised Arcade when he was first enslaved -- though it shouldn’t have — was just how rampant homosexual relations in the Legion were.  He’d heard the rumors but discounted them as clumsy propaganda by the NCR, especially knowing that the Legion outlawed such relations on pain of death.  Yet he quickly realized that the stories were true.  While there was almost no intercourse between Legionaries themselves, just about every one of the chieftains had his _puer,_ or “boy,” as did most of the centurions, and even the decani.  These _pueri_ were all supposedly pages, scribes, orderlies and so on -- but once you knew what to look for it was obvious, almost blatantly so.

Arcade was unsure to what extent Caesar was aware of all this.  He often came across as oddly disconnected from the day-to-day business of the army; although at times he would make comments that suggested he knew far more than he was letting on.   Arcade eventually decided that Caesar knew on some level but had decided to turn a blind eye to it except to the extent that it was politically useful to keep his subordinates off balance.  He himself had no such “boy,” and though Arcade had been afraid at first, Caesar had never approached him for such services; nor had anyone else--Arcade suspected his status as Caesar’s “pet” protected him.  In any case, Arcade knew, if there was one thing Caesar was undoubtedly a master at, it was hanging onto his own power.

Now, Caesar leaned back in his chair and turned to the problem at hand.  “So, this girl, this Samantha….”  Again, his eye fell on Alerio.  “Alerio.  Y’r _frumentarii_ **.**   What d’….d’they have t’ say ‘bout her?”

“We have a great deal of material on her, Lord Caesar,” the man responded crisply.  “She is a widely-known and recognized figure within the Capital Wasteland, and her fame has even reached surrounding areas.  She’s known as far away as the Pitt, and Point Lookout.  It is clear that to the Profligates who live in this forsaken place, she’s something of a hero.”

“A hero?” Caesar frowned, the good side of his face contorting; the bad side remained frozen, the mouth sagging, the eye set in an inane, meaningless glare.  “If she’s…hero, sh’mus’…ha’ some kin’ a p’litic’l power.  Wha’ land ‘s she hail from?”

Alerio consulted some notes.  “From what we’ve learned, she began life in one of the Vaults, Vault 101; perhaps seventeen years ago, her Vault experienced a crisis of leadership that forced her onto the surface.  Since that time, she has contacted and become accepted by perhaps every major group in the Capital Wastelands: groups such as the Brotherhood of Steel -- “

“Ah.  _Them_ **,** ” Caesar slurred disparagingly.  Alerio continued on.

“Hm, the Regulators, Reilly’s Rangers … forgive me, the list is quite extensive,” he demurred, looking up from the papers he held.  He gestured sharply and his scribe came forward: a young, pale-looking boy with large, dark eyes that had seen far too much suffering.  Arcade looked away as Alerio passed the sheaf of notes back to the child.   “She apparently lived in Megaton for a time -- Megaton is the settlement closest to her Vault; it’s what passes for a city in these parts, though it isn’t a _proper_ city, of course -- “

“’Course,” Caesar acknowledged, deadpan. 

“--but in the last ten years she seems to have devoted herself to establishing a new settlement in Tenpenny Tower, which is a large, prewar skyscraper in the Southern Wastes.  The settlement appears to be thriving under her guidance,” he added.  “This Samantha is clearly a person of enormous energy.  All of this, of course, is even more unusual taking into account that she’s a mere _woman_ **.** ”

 “Heh.”  Caesar laughed again.  “Soun’s li… s’far in ‘vance ’er sex … ‘most ‘s g’d lea’r ‘s man ‘d be.”

Alerio looked up, blinking.  “I’m -- my apologies, Lord Caesar, I didn’t understand that.”

Caesar made a rough sound of impatience. Arcade knew what was coming and tensed; the other man clouted him a powerful blow on the shoulder.  “ _Iuvenis_ **,** ” he snarled.

Arcade wet his lips. “’It sounds like she’s far in advance of her sex, almost as good a leader as a man would be,’” he relayed.

Alerio did not spare him a glance; none of the legionaries ever did, when he spoke for Caesar.  Instead, the chief of the _frumentarii_ spoke over his head.  Arcade had hated that, once; it had made him feel as if he were invisible.  “She is, Lord Caesar,” Alerio said.  

Caesar laughed again, a short, hacking sound that sounded as if he were being strangled.  "So.  Tha's this ... this S'mantha.  An' sh'll be here ... how long?"

"We scheduled the meeting for noon, Lord Caesar," Alerio said.

"Noon.  Righ'.  So."  He swept his uneven glare around his chieftains.  "Tell me.  Wha' _you_ all think ... think 'bout this place?  'Bout the Capital Wastelands?  Wan' y'r thoughts on the ... the situation.  Anyone?"

That baleful glare toured the confines of the tent, dim in the light that filtered through the roof and the vents.  His chieftains -- Arcade knew the correct term was _tribunes,_ but it was hard for him to think of them as anything other than they were, chieftains of a warlord -- all shifted uneasily, not wanting to speak first.  Their silence and diffidence obviously displeased Caesar; the warlord's drooping, deformed face pulled into a scowl.  One finger stabbed out at Alerio.  " _You.  '_ Lerio.  Tell me -- wha' _you_ think."

Put on the spot for the second time in near as many minutes, Alerio blinked uneasily.  "While these Profligates may be somewhat organized, and have their hero Samantha to lead them, I do not see that they can put up any resistance to us.  Should you wish to destroy them, Lord Caesar, I'm sure we can easily do so."

Caesar gave that hacking, strangled laugh again, which Arcade supposed -- and Alerio too, he could see -- meant that he was not displeased.  "Good.  You, 'Relius?"

He turned now to Aurelius of Phoenix.  Aurelius was a big brute of a man, with a blocky face divided by a nose as thin as a razor blade; he was the most vicious of Caesar's tribunes, though far from the most intelligent or dangerous.  Aurelius had never been good at the game of politics; however, Arcade supposed Caesar kept him around because he was very, very good at dishing out violence.  _Almost as good as Lanius had been,_ he mused.

Aurelius shouldered forward, wrapping one hand around the stock of his hunting rifle.  "These Profligates are weak and pathetic like most of their kind," he said, snorting in disgust.  “We will have no trouble crushing them all and making them bow to the will of the Legion.  All you have to do is say the word, Lord Caesar."

Caesar made a sound halfway between a snort and a laugh.  "Man al's  ... al's knows wher'e stands wi' you, 'Relius."  Aurelius drew himself up proudly at Caesar's words, taking them for praise. That single bright eye roamed, settling on Vulpes Inculta. 

"An' you.  You, Savage Fox.  Tell me ... wha're _yer_ thoughts?"

No expression showed itself on that thin, pallid face behind the dark glasses Vulpes wore.  "Our army is ready to move when you so order, Lord Caesar," he said.  "Give the word, and as you command, we shall do."

 _That's it, huh,_ Arcade mused.  Vulpes always played his cards close to his vest when it came to Caesar.  He wondered what the Savage Fox truly did think about their chances to overcome the Capital Wasteland.  He settled back on his heels, considering, and as such missed Caesar's words to him until the _imperator's_ heavy hand landed on his shoulder -- right across the knotted scar tissue there.

 _"You._   _Iuvenis._   Didn'-- didn't ya hear me?  I 'sked _you_.  Wha're _yer_ thoughts?  Any?"

 _Damn it, damn it -- damn it!_ The burst of pain that accompanied Caesar's blow ripped him out of his thoughts. As his eyes jerked up to his master, Caesar slurred, "I _asked_ y' a _quest'n, iuvenis._   Didja hear me 'r no?"  His drooping face contorted into a scowl, an expression given more weight by the paralysis on his right side.  "Wha' d'ya _think?_   C'n we beat this S'mantha 'r not?  C'n we beat th' Capital Wasteland 'r not?"

His thick fingers contorted, crushing Arcade's shoulder still further, making him gasp.

"Are--are you asking me?"

"You _know_ I am," Caesar growled.  Aurelius of Phoenix was watching with outright pleasure, while a thin smile crossed Vulpes's lips; only Alerio looked on calmly and with little interest.  Again, though, it didn't matter; Arcade had long since stopped caring -- or perhaps lost the ability to care -- about anything anymore.

He looked up at Caesar warily.  A long time ago, he had decided -- perhaps at the beginning of his captivity; but it sometimes felt as if he had made the decision even before that, as if his captivity had been eternal and his decision just as eternal -- that he would always speak his mind to the man  He would never lie or dissemble to please him.  It had been extremely difficult to hold onto that promise, but it was one he had largely managed to keep; and in keeping it, he felt he had managed to hold on to some vestige of himself.  It had also, he knew, allowed him to earn Caesar's respect in a way that almost nothing else would have done.  Now he drew a breath.

"Don't ask me my opinion unless you want me to give it," he warned.

Caesar's one good eye narrowed dangerously; he was losing his patience.  "'f I didn' _want_ yer 'pinion, I w'dn't be _asking_ ya.  Y'gonna tell me 'r no?"

Arcade steeled himself, wondering inwardly whether and how much this was going to cost him.  “Of course I am not privy to the information you are, Lord Caesar--" amazing how the title that had burned his tongue when he was first enslaved came easily to him now "--but I have to say that taking the Capital Wasteland may not be the simple matter some here seem to think."

Those thick, stubby fingers tightened.  "Th' 'll d'ya mean by _that_ , _iuvenis?_ "

Arcade shifted slightly, trying to ease Caesar's grip on his shoulder.  _I will tell him exactly what I think, I will, I will, I will--_   "Consider it objectively," he began.  "At first glance the Capital Wasteland seems like other areas we’ve conquered in the past:  several small, isolated settlements ripe for the taking by a unified, disciplined force."  He did not say that Caesar's Legion was no longer as unified and disciplined as it had been in the past;  _that's not dissembling,_ he told himself; _that's just not relevant to what I'm talking about right now._ Perhaps a small distinction, but one that allowed him to keep what small rags of self-esteem he possessed.  "However, just based on the report Alerio’s given us, there seem to be a network of links involving trade and exchange between the settlements with this Samantha in particular as a nexus between many different and distinct groups.  We may be looking at a region on the verge of unifying into a more complex society, and we ignore that at our peril.  Now does that mean that we won't be able to overwhelm them?  I honestly don't know; I've never pretended to be an expert on military strategy, Lord Caesar.  But I do think that if we try, it may well cost us a lot more than some here seem to expect."  Again, he didn't say--and didn't have to--that Caesar's Legion was not what it once was. The long retreat from the NCR territory had definitely taken its toll.

Aurelius of Phoenix gave an outraged growl.  Alerio kept a still face, almost impossible, even for Arcade, to read.  Vulpes Inculta's expression could have been anything behind his dark sunglasses, but Arcade thought he saw the man's pale lips twitch slightly.

"I've never heard such _insolence!_ " snarled Aurelius, and Arcade felt the familiar tightening in his stomach.  "He's insulted our Legion, he's insulted our fighting capabilities--he's insulted our _intelligence,_ believing that a _woman_ might be the key to defeating our fighting Legion--Lord Caesar, will you put up with this from him?  You allow this slave too much leeway--"

Caesar's fingers tightened dangerously on Arcade's shoulder, yet the cold glint in his one good eye was aimed at Aurelius.  "You ques'nin' h'w I run the Legion, Aurelius?" he asked softly.

Even one as thick as Aurelius realized when was a good time to shut up; the blocky, brutish features contracted.  "No, Lord Caesar," he said, sounding afraid – with good reason.  Since the disastrous retreat, and even more so since he'd had his stroke, Caesar had become much more unpredictable, even dangerous.  It was only to be expected, Arcade supposed; after all, as external circumstances turned against him, Caesar had had to crack down even harder to hold onto his own power, to suppress any possible thought of revolt.

"No, _Imperator,_ " Aurelius said again, fervently.  "I would never question you.  Caesar does not wrong."

"Damn righ'," Caesar slurred.  "And don' you f'rget it, 'Relius.  Nor any o' th' rest o' ya."  He glowered at his other tribunes, who all had the sense to avert their eyes.  Just as Arcade was beginning to breathe a sigh of relief, thinking he had escaped the storm, Caesar's fingers tightened again on his shoulder, driving spikes of pain through his back.

"And _you,_ _iuvenis,_ " he growled in that thick, slurred voice.  "I don' like th' way y' said th't t'me.  An' don' try tellin' me y'were bein' respectf'l either.  I know better'n that, I do."

Arcade ground his teeth against the cold ball of fear in the pit of his stomach, trying to avert his mind from what could happen -- what Caesar could make happen.  "My Lord Caesar, if you found anything disrespectful in my tone--"

"I _did._   And y'll make up for it.  I 'spect a public apology and criticism, _iuvenis._ Tonight at the banquet f'r this S'mantha person.  Y'understand?"

"As you command, Lord Caesar."  Inwardly he was relieved to have gotten off so lightly.  The penances Caesar had demanded from him in the past had been worse; much worse.  This--a public self-criticism--he could do.

Caesar glowered at him, and seemed about to say something else, but the flap of the command tent was brushed aside just then, and one of the scouts looked in.

"Lord Caesar," he cried, pressing one fist to his chest and bowing.  "Scout Decius reporting in.  The Profligate woman and her escort have been spotted on the road to the _castrum_.  She should be here any minute now!"

"Well.  Th'r she is," growled Caesar.  "Wha're y'all wai'in f'r?  Le's go 'n' greet this Samantha girl." 

Leaning hard on Arcade's shoulder, he levered himself to his feet.  His tribunes stood aside, following him out of the tent, as they went down the dusty lane of the encampment toward the parade ground.  Despite everything, Arcade could not suppress a wave of excitement, as he realized at last he was about to see her. 

_Who is this Samantha?_

* * *

 

Caesar and his tribunes took position in the center of camp, on the parade ground.  The hideous chair Caesar called his throne dominated the dais at the head of the parade ground.  He’d lugged that throne all the way with him from the Mojave, holding onto it almost in despite of reason, most likely because it was almost all that was left of his earlier conquests after the long, disastrous retreat from Hoover Dam.  Now he heaved his ungainly bulk into the chair with a groan.  A rough snarl and curt gesture of his hand, and Arcade understood he was once again to kneel at the side of Caesar's chair, rather than being permitted to stand; the cold light in Caesar's eye made it clear that the Imperator was more, rather than less displeased with him.

 _He asked me,_ Arcade thought churlishly.  _He **asked** me what I thought._  Of course, he knew that that didn't matter, not with Caesar.  Not anymore.  He sank down on his knees beside Caesar's throne, trying not to think that this Samantha would see him for the first time in the humiliating position of kneeling at Caesar's side.   _It doesn't matter, anyway,_ he told himself distantly.  The slave collar was heavy on his neck.  Caesar's tribunes ranged themselves on either side of his chair: Legate Vulpes Inculta, Alerio, Aurelius of Phoenix.  Others. They stood with arms crossed and stern expressions as Caesar's Praetorian Guard took up positions alongside.  Together, they formed a solid, formidable Imperial wall, waiting there for Samantha’s arrival.

They heard her before they saw her.  A low, whining, drone came to their ears, almost inaudible at first, but rapidly growing into a powerful hum.  There was something strangely awful about that humming sound; it was as if, Arcade thought, he were hearing it through the bones of his skull, as if it resonated at frequencies not quite made for human ears.  That strange humming grew and grew, followed by a heavy clanking sound – one very, very familiar to him.  The sound of Power Armor.

_What in the --_

Heads turned and a wave of murmuring filled the air, as the troops lining the aisle leading to the parade ground strained get a look at the newcomers.   _She's here.  She's coming into view._   And Arcade shifted, _desperate_ , all of a sudden, to see this Samantha, this Lone Wanderer, this Messiah.

The first thing he saw was the source of that strange hum.  There were two of them, robots made from a gleaming copper metal, hovering above the ground triangular bases with triangular heads attached above them.  The heads had each a single, central yellow light which Arcade assumed functioned as an eye.  Each robot bore an extension somewhat like a drill, glowing whitish-blue. Arcade had to restrain himself from openly staring.  _What **are** they?_  He had never seen a drone of that size with hovering capabilities; they had no discernable thruster jets, and their technology seemed completely alien.  Caesar's minions were just as confused as he was, if the low murmurings running through the crowd were any evidence.

The two drones moved forward into the open space in front of Caesar's throne, and then split, each going off to one side to make way for the rest of the procession.  And it was then that Arcade got a nasty shock; for when they split apart they revealed a figure in armor that he hadn't seen in decades: Enclave Tesla armor.  It was an older model than the type he had worn so many years ago, but there was no mistaking the green arcs of energy and the dragon-like helmet.  He shivered, drawing back instinctively; an overwhelming impulse to hide came over him.

The Tesla-armored soldier stepped to one side also.  With a crack, the helmet came off, revealing a male, maybe in his late 20s or early 30s, with blonde hair and bright blue eyes.  His face was crossed with healed scars that made Arcade wonder. Next came a woman, also perhaps in her 30s, maybe a little older than the man. 

 _Could this be her?_ he wondered.  Yet somehow he didn't think so.

The woman was lean but wiry, her body corded with muscle; the combination gave her a jittery, unfocused, on-edge air.  Her reddish brown hair was raised in two spiked fans, one over either ear; Arcade had seen the style on some Raider bodies and had heard it called "Fallen Angel."  She wore a set of armor consisting of little more than a metal brassiere with an attached shoulder guard over a quilted skirt that looked like it had been made out of a bedspread, with sandals under metal shinguards.  Her eyes were ice blue, and she looked on the legionaries with a sort of arrogant sneer that Arcade knew well.  He had seen the look before on the Fiends he had known so long ago back in the Mojave -- a sort of drug-addled contempt for everyone and everything.  The way she moved, the way she carried herself, bespoke a familiarity with violence that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. 

 _A Raider of some sort, but what is she doing here?  Could this be Samantha?_ He dismissed the thought immediately.  This woman could not do the things and inspire the heroic admiration that the voice over the radio -- the voice known as Three Dog -- ascribed to Samantha.

The next woman made him wonder: she was a dark-skinned woman wearing heavy Power Armor, with light gray hair shaped into a buzz cut.  Her armor was Brotherhood Power Armor, Arcade estimated it as T-45, and at her back she carried a Super Sledge as if she were familiar with it.   _Could **she** be Samantha?_  Yet somehow she was older than he had expected Samantha to be; he would put her in her late forties or even early fifties ....

Then as that armored figure stepped out of the way, he saw _her_.

A bulky form appeared, another woman. She wore what looked like a variant of the Brotherhood T-51 armor, colored a light whitish gray.  Her helmet was off and hanging at her hip.  At her side, she carried a strange looking pistol, and at her back, a metal mesh half-tube that he recognized instantly.  _A Fat Man._

Her hair was a brightish blonde, as if bleached by long hours in the sun, and her face was deeply tanned.  The tan made the blue of her eyes stand out.  They were cornflower blue, deeper and darker, but there was something about them that made him think of another pair of blue eyes, one that he had known many years ago, in another place ....

 _This is Samantha.  It has to be._   She had such tremendous presence and poise, he would have known her any time, anywhere.  The force of her presence was enough to rival Caesar's  himself, when he had been in his prime; even as their party progressed through camp -- brought up by two more of those strange drones at the rear -- he saw the heads of the legionaries turn to follow her.  Her face bore an open honesty as fresh as a clean breeze -- yet there was no trace of naivete in those deep blue eyes; instead they held a sharp, keen intelligence, as if she were alert to all happenings around her, constantly storing and recording everything.  Her natural charisma was almost intoxicating; she was vital, someone who _mattered,_ and for the first time in a long time, Arcade felt the sting of his position -- an inward cringe that she would see him so. 

 _So many women,_ he mused sardonically.  _The legionaries won't like that ...._

Then Caesar's fingers tightened on his shoulder, and he bit his lip, hard as Samantha and her entourage came to a halt in front of Caesar's throne.  Their audience was about to begin.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Author’s note:**   Short chapter this time.  The next scene was extremely long, so it just looked like this was a good place to break it.  Will try to get the next chapter up no later than early next week.  I’ve also fixed a minor inconsistency in Chapter 1. Thanks to **LadyKate1** who betaed this and Chapter 1 as well!

* * *

 

Two drones from Mothership Zeta went first; Samantha had brought them both for protection and a show of force, though she doubted Caesar and his ilk would understand what they were seeing.  It had taken her a lot of trial and error to replicate the control unit she had found up on the ship, but in the end it had been worth it; there was now a small force of Mothership Zeta drones down on the surface, and she definitely wanted them to show this Caesar and his Legion her power. 

Bright and Sean came next, as they did all the time now; Bright had taken the position of liaison with Crystal's Raiders, and lived at Tenpenny Tower with the rest of them.  Sean was head of the Tower's security forces, the closest thing they had to an army.  Then Star Paladin Cross, the envoy from the Brotherhood; Samantha had wanted as many people as possible in Power Armor and carrying extremely powerful weapons; she’d brought her Fat Man for just that reason.  _Show these Legionaries that we're not like the unarmed Tribals they’ve dealt with in the past._

Butch walked beside her; he’d insisted on coming.  Samantha had to admit she liked having him around, and he wasn't incompetent in a fight. And of course, on her other side as always was Charon, wearing Metal Army, and carrying his custom shotgun.  One of the legion of puppies Dogmeat had sired trotted at her heels; Samantha called this one Dogmeat Two.  Lastly, another pair of Zeta drones formed the rear guard.   Overall, she thought it was an impressive group.

_But will these Legionaries think so?_

As they moved through the _castrum_ , Samantha discreetly studied her surroundings, storing up information for later use. She had to admit the camp looked neat and well-kept; the tents were arranged nicely, the lanes free from rubbish and trash.  The Legionary men (and they were all men, she noticed) were clad in armor made of ancient sporting equipment that somehow also had a distinctly Roman vibe; most of them were armed with projectile weapons, and she saw many of them had throwing spears -- _pila?_ \-- at their backs.  A few among them, probably centurions, wore fragments of Power Armor – a vambrace here, greaves there – but she didn’t see any whole suits. 

She and her party had come from a Brotherhood of Steel outpost which had been monitoring the Legion for weeks.  The first warning had come from Crystal’s Raiders, who had encountered the Legion’s advance scouts beyond the farthest boundaries of the Capital Wasteland.  The Raiders had shadowed them for several weeks before the Legion made itself known, and had provided the Wasteland settlements with detailed reports; Raiders might be dumb, but they were very keenly observant.  Samantha had been well informed of the situation she was walking into.   _Which was why I brought so many heavy hitters with me,_ she thought wryly.

As the lane widened out, she stepped into an open space, a parade ground, with a large command tent at the center.  An imperial standard was staked in the ground before the tent, bearing the banner of a yellow bull on red.  And in front of -- _ah.  That’s them all right._

In front of the tent was a throne, a large chair covered with hides and fur with spears jutting up from its back.  A line of men in leather armor and purple cloaks wearing Power Fists stood in guard positions, looking stern and alert.  _These must be the Praetorian Guard that I've heard so much about,_ Samantha mused.  Standing on either side of the throne were several men who Samantha guessed must be chieftains or -- _what did he call them?  Tribunes?_   She noted three in particular:  first, a large, brutish man with a blocky face divided by a nose as sharp as a knifeblade, with small, squinty, mean-looking eyes; next a shorter man who was so nondescript that her eyes almost slid right over him, and finally a tall, emaciated-looking man with a thin face.  It was hard to make out details of his facial features because he wore dark sunglasses under a coyote head-dress.  He bore a chill about him, something icy that raised the hairs on the back of her neck; Samantha found herself thinking, _This one is bad news.  Keep an eye on him._

 _And the guy in the throne.  That's got to be Caesar._   The man himself sprawled in the fur-clad throne.  Her first impression was of a formerly athletic figure who had gone completely to seed.  He was overweight, almost grossly so, and instead of armor, he wore a flowing white garment that Samantha recognized as a creditable attempt at a toga.  He was balding and his remaining hair was graying to white.  But most notably, one side of his face was frozen and drooping, and one arm hung limply at a strange angle.  Samantha had enough medical knowledge to know the signs of a stroke when she saw one.  _Surprised he managed to survive that,_ she mused.

It was then that her eyes fell on him.  Kneeling by the side of the throne, in Caesar's shadow, was a slight presence: it took a moment for her to register him, for even in decay Caesar’s massive charisma overshadowed him almost completely.  This man had an unhealthy pallor; his hair, probably once bright blonde, was now dulled with streaks of gray.   She would have pegged his age at 50, maybe older than that.  He wore a white coat that reminded her of those worn by her father and Dr. Madison Li -- _some kind of medical officer, maybe?_ \-- and around his neck was a slave collar.

 _Who the hell is that guy?_   They hadn't seen anything like him when Caesar's army came in.  _If he's a doctor, why the hell is he a slave -- or  vice versa?_   Caesar clearly valued him or else he would not have kept him so close by his side, but then why make him a slave? And why humiliate him by forcing him to kneel like that?  

The man glanced up at her, almost surreptitiously; despite his haggard appearance, she noted that he had a strong, clean facial bone structure with a good jawline, and pale blue, intelligent eyes behind dark-framed glasses.  His eyes met hers briefly and there was something there she couldn't quite read; then he glanced at Caesar as if to check the man's reaction, and looked down again. 

The Zeta drones hummed gently as her party stopped in front of the dais. Caesar heaved himself up from his throne, leaning heavily on the arm of his chair.  As he did so, Samantha could see one entire side of his body was paralyzed.   _Yes, a stroke, all right,_ she thought. He staggered and almost fell, catching himself on the shoulder of the blonde-haired man kneeling to the side of his throne.  The man winced as Caesar's hand gripped his shoulder, hard enough that Samantha could see white in his knuckles, but then the imperator pushed his way up.

"Welcome," he said.  Samantha could tell he was making an effort to speak distinctly, but there was still a slur in his voice. "Welc'm to ... my _castrum_.  The camp of Caesar, the camp of the Imperator, the camp of the Legion."  He chuckled a gurgling sound that sounded like a laugh.  "You ... must be S'mantha?"

"Yes." Samantha nodded, inclining her head.  "I thank you for your welcome.  I am Samantha of Tenpenny Tower.  With me are Star Paladin Cross, emissary for the Brotherhood of Steel; Butch, my consort, my boon companion Charon, Sean Taylor, Tenpenny Tower's head of Security, and Bright, liaison with Crystal's Raiders.  You are Caesar?"

"Yes," the man said, slurring another laugh. "I'm Caesar.  'Sme.  Th' Imperator f'r the...'tire Legion."

 Samantha nodded.  "I am here at the behest of the communities of the Capital Wastelands.  I have been chosen as an emissary for them, to open negotiations with you and your Legion."

"Pleasure t' meet you," Caesar slurred, and Samantha thought for an instant that there was something almost mocking in his voice. "Very ... very pleased that you c'd come an' join me an' my Legion here today.  You – y’ came seekin’ truce, so none o' mine will hurt you.  An' I hope that our discuss'n here t'day and in the days that follow wll be helpful and profitable t' both o' us, both sides."

"I hope that as well," Samantha said truthfully.

“Forgive my ‘pearance,” Caesar continued, with an obvious effort to enunciate precisely.   “But y’see, I had a stroke yearrs ‘go, an’ … lef’ me like this.”

"I see.  I'm sorry," Samantha said politely.  As she said the words, however, her eyes went to the line of men behind him.  They simply watched, stone-faced.

"Heh.  Don' be," he slurred.  "Didn' slow me down any.  If y' can... can... can' un'rst'nd what I'm sayin', this--this _iuvenis_ here 'll translate f'r us.  He's used to it."  And here he reached out and slapped the kneeling, blonde-haired man hard on the shoulder.  The man winced, and his jaw tightened, but he did not protest

"These here..."  One expansive arm gestured.  "These here 're my tribunes.  My -- heh -- my _chieftns."_    The damaged side of his face twitched in spasm.  "Chief'ns.  Tha's wh' ... wh' you _primitives_ w'd underst'nd.  Th's here.  _Alerio._ "  One finger stabbed toward the ordinary looking man, so normal-looking that Samantha's eyes again wanted to slide right past him.  "Chief of.... of my... my _frumentarii_."

 _Grain procurement officials,_ Samantha thought, _a specialty that also evolved into intelligence officials in the ancient Roman empire._ Originally they had been primarily secret police, but this new Legion apparently used them as spies. 

"Aur--A'relis of Phoenix," he said, and that finger stabbed out again at the tall, blocky-looking man with the narrow nose.  "My head of legion.  And Vulpes Inculta," he said, gesturing toward the pale man with dark glasses, wearing a coyote head, his narrow, pinched face inscrutable behind those glasses. "My Legate.  My right-hand man.  His name .... name means _savage fox,_ 'case you din't know.  He ... c'm by it honestly.  That he did," Caesar slurred a laugh, and tried to clap the stone-faced man on the shoulder.  The man -- _Vulpes_ \-- turned to regard Caesar, but his expression did not change.  Samantha wondered what the Savage Fox thought of Caesar's leadership. 

She turned her gaze on the kneeling, blonde-haired man curiously; Caesar had introduced his other men, but had said nothing about him.  She met his clear blue-gray eyes again, and was surprised at the intelligence in them; for a moment, it seemed as if this man were communicating with her as clearly as if in words.  He gave her a private look and an almost imperceptible weary, sardonic shrug.

 _Who **is** he?  Not a chieftain, a slave -- clearly, because of the collar -- but what sort of slave?  _She glanced at the rest of her party to see if they had marked him, and was startled again; Sean was watching the man closely with a sharp frown twisting that scarred face of his.

Aloud, she replied to Caesar, "Thank you for having us here today, Imperator.”

“Heh.  Y’r welcome," he slurred.  His one good eye clouded for a moment, then he seemed to come back to himself.  "Welcome.  Yes.   T'my encampment, S'mantha of the Capital Wasteland.  'S an...an _hon'r_ f'r ya t' be here.

"Y' know why y'r here.  Y' know why ... why _we're_ here.  Aft'r all this long way, aft'r the long way we've come, we're here to make ... an alliance w' you.  You people.  Y'r ... Was'lan'rs.  My hope that ... tha' this meeting betw'n us 's the star' of a glorious alliance.  A bond between our peoples.  A frien'.... frien'ship tha'll last down through th' ages.  Was years ago....s'many years ago....we started our wandering fr' Hoover Dam. Our wanderin' from the New California R'publ'c terr'tory.  At that time.... aft'r a great battle, great....great...."  He paused, as if he had forgotten what he was going to say."Great _victory!_ "  he said decisively, his face brightening.

 _That's not what I heard._   What little Samantha had heard suggested that the Legion had come back this way after a severe defeat. She tried to tune back into Caesar's speech; he was rambling badly, and it was hard to follow him.  Again, her eyes fell on Caesar's kneeling slave, to check his reaction.  He met her eyes and gave that weary, bitter half-shrug.

"...an' we came all this way, acr...acrss the breath of th' continen... a j'rny th' likes o' which I'd nev'r .... nev'r b'n done b'fore in th' history since the Great War.  We came all this way, fightin' ev'ry step o' the way ... through lands c'trlled by savage tribesmen ... by  Raid'rs, by ... by Fiends, by Profligates 'f all kinds ... Through lan's of radioactivity, through lands o' h'rrible Super-Mutants, thr' lan's o' ghouls, an' ... now w're here.  We're here at th' ... th' ... "  He trailed off for a moment, and again, Samantha wondered if he'd forgotten what he was going to say.

“Th' birthplace o' th' Old World, th' World Before the War.  We came all th's way ... through setbacks, difficulties ... I ov'r came ... ov'rcame _treason_ 'n m' own ranks," he slurred viciously. "M' own right-hand man.  My Legate Lanius.  Th' man I rais'd up an' ... an' set by my side ... I kept him wi' me, made 'im my s'ccess'r, my heir ... 'n how'd he repay me?  How'd he repay me?"  Anger flashed in his one good eye. "Stabbed me in th' back!  He w's ... w's plottin' t' ... t' take me down!  Plottin' against me!  Tha's how he repaid me.  Tha's the _thanks_ I get, fr'm one who I gave more 'n ... more'n anyone else in th' world.  D's tha' seem _right_ t' you?  Does it?"

Samantha started to speak, but Caesar ignored her; she glanced again at the pale, thin man kneeling by Caesar's side, and he gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.  _Clearly, replying isn't expected or required_.  Caesar was rambling on, and Samantha realized she was having a tremendously difficult time picking up the thread of his semi-coherent, self-pitying, self-aggrandizing screed.  She concentrated hard, trying to make sense of it all.

"Lanius ... L'gate Lanius ... " Again, his good eye went vague as he seemed to lose his train of thought; then he came to himself again.  "Treason ... in m'own ranks ... but I t'k 'im down.  T'k him down, an' now ... now all my own officer corps ... they're w'th me.  Aren'tcha?"  That last line carried a sardonic inflection, and he glowered at his tribunes; they shifted and started to speak, but he gestured them clumsily to silence.  "Tha's ... a' right, I know where _you_ stand."

He snorted.  "Af'r all that ... af'r treas'n, treach'ry, illness, hardships ... an' we have had hard times, haven't we?  But now ... now tha's all ended.  Soon 's ... Soon 's we make this alliance w' the Was'lan'ers, we'll have a place.  Place t' rest.  Place t' ... t' call _home._   It'll be our home!"  He stopped, as if trying to remember something.  "Our  home ... which we'll share w' you, 'course," he added, with an attempt at a smile. "We'll share.  Share it.  You and us.  T'gether.  An' we'll ... we'll make a new place.  New home t'gether.  We'll pr'tec' you, an' you'll ... you'll pr'tec' us.   Our two peoples, t'gether, side by side."

Again, Samantha couldn't help but glance at the kneeling man, and again, he gave her a weary, sardonic shrug in reply, along with a tiny shake of his head. 

"An' ... an' so here.  Here, t'day, 's the star' of a new life!" Caesar seemed to be wrapping up now.  "New life, f'r us, an f'r you.  Both o' us t'gether.  We'll take the Wastes an' ... an' make a s'ciety tha' ... tha' lives up t' the old one.  Th' Old World, in the days b'fore the Great War.  We'll make a s'ciety t'gether, and th' fut're 'll be bright.  Be bright f'r both 'f us.  F'rever!"

He raised his one good arm, indicating that his speech -- _such as it was,_  Samantha thought bemusedly -- was at an end, and looked expectantly at his tribunes.  The cheers and applause that followed were far out of proportion to his rambling, incoherent speech, Samantha thought.  She clapped herself, politely but with little enthusiasm.  Star Paladin Cross and Sean Taylor joined her applause; Bright and Butch both looked completely bewildered. 

"What the -- " Bright began before Sean stepped on her foot. 

Charon was also expressionless, but then he always was; he simply met her eyes with his own, and gave a slight nod.  Samantha considered for a moment, then said, "Thank you for your gracious welcome, Lord Caesar.  Certainly it will be very advantageous to both our peoples if we can come to some agreement.

Caesar’s one good eye lit with pleasure.  "Pleased t' ... t' have y' here, Lady S'mantha," he managed.  "'s not jus' words.  Know we c'n ... c'n do great things t'gether."

 _Maybe we can and maybe we can't,_ Samantha thought, but she said nothing.

"Now, Lady S'mantha," Caesar drawled.  He turned to address his troops.  " We show our guests wh ... wh't th' hosp'talty of th' Legion entails!  Today ... T'day, hon'r'd guests, we'll take y' ... take y' roun' n' show ya what ... what we c'n do. So you ... so y' c'n go back t' y'r people an' tell 'em all ... all abou' the wonders o' th' Legion.  An’ then t'night we ... t'night we feast!  ."  Here he managed a slurred laugh, his one eye shining bright. "All right th' lot o' ya -- yer all dismissed!  Get t' yer duties!"

As the assembled troops filed from the square, Caesar heaved himself to his feet, leaning hard on the shoulder of the kneeling man.  "An' as fer you, Lady S'mantha, an' yer ... yer entourage, I'll ... I 'stend t' ya my mos' gracious hospitality f'r the day here.  Come w' me, an I'll show ya ... show y' everything there is t' see ab't our encampment."

"I look forward to it," Samantha said courteously, but as she spoke, she exchanged another surreptitious glance with the kneeling man at Caesar's side.  He gave her another weary look and sardonic shrug, and once again, she pondered, _Who is he?_

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Author’s note:** Long chapter this time.  (Making up for a short one last time!)  I wanted to mention  in previous author’s notes but forgot: my models for Caesar in this story are Guyana-era Jim Jones, Charles Dederich, the founder of the Synanon cult, Col. Kurz from _Apocalypse Now,_ and bunker-era Hitler – individuals of immense charisma and personal magnetism who retained a terrifying grip on those around them even as they themselves sank into decay and became increasingly detached from reality.  You won’t see it as much in this part, but when I start posting Part II we should get a better look at Caesar. 

Thanks as always to **LadyKate1** who betaed!

 

* * *

 

The rest of the day, Caesar and his tribunes led them through the Legion encampment, showing them the training ground, the defenses, the supply yard, and dulling their mind with long figures on the strength of the Legion.   The ordinary-looking tribune Alerio was the one Caesar called upon to answer most questions, which he did promptly and efficiently though with a faint tinge of resentment.  _Because I’m a woman?_ Samantha wondered.  _Or because I’m not Legion?  Maybe a bit of both …._

"The Legion," Alerio explained, "is organized around a force of 5,000 fighting soldiers, divided into units of 80 called centuries, each led by one centurion.  The centuries are grouped together into six-century cohorts and are further subdivided into contubernia -- essentially a mess group -- led by a decurion.  Support is assigned to each contubernia. We have additional strength in the form of slaves who perform various support roles.”

_He speaks of slaves so casually_.  Samantha had known the Legionaries were slavers but was still taken aback by the completely matter-of-fact way in which Alerio mentioned it.

  The Legionaries themselves," he continued, "were originally tribals from the pre-war state of Arizona, which united under Lord Caesar recognizing his genius and vision." He bowed his head toward Caesar.  "Lord Caesar, thanks to his abundant personal gifts, was able to take these disparate, warring Dissolutes and Profligates and transform them into a single, unified fighting force capable of winning, conquering and holding territory on a vast and grand scale.  It is all thanks to his vision that we are here today."

_I notice,_ Samantha thought, _that he says nothing about their brutal defeat at NCR hands._ She wondered what the true strength of the Legion was; just looking around she doubted it was anywhere near 5000.   She was also keenly interested in the things they weren't talking about, to wit the status of the slaves.  It seemed as if every male who wasn't in the armor of a Legionary was wearing an explosive collar, and all the women were, without exception.  **_All_** _the women._   She felt her fist tighten on the grip of her weapon.

Her reverie was broken as Sean Taylor asked Alerio, "So how does one become a legionary?"

"Legionaries are made in two ways," Alerio explained.  "First of all, as it advances, the Legion takes large numbers of prisoners.  Males are tested, and if they prove worthy, they are put through a reconditioning process to be turned into soldiers.  Second, Legionary children are trained from birth to learn and exhibit the true virtues of soldiery.  It is a highly efficient system," the Legionary said with evident pride, "one that clearly identifies and rewards the best qualities and highest _virtus_ of which man is capable.  To be worthy of being a Legionary is truly to be the elite of the elite.”

Star Paladin Cross studied him, frowning.  "So which were you?" she asked.

Alerio fixed the Paladin with a cold gaze.  At last he said, "I was inducted as a child and reconditioned into a Legionary.  It was -- difficult," he acknowledged stiffly, "but to have undergone the process is truly a mark of esteem.  I survived and rose to this eminence.  As you see.”  He indicated himself  “The day I personally became a full Legionary was the proudest day of my life.  It is a true accomplishment, and one I will cherish forever."

"Truly a worthy feat," Samantha murmured. 

"It is, indeed," he said, with a finality that closed off any further discussion.

In the afternoon, they were treated to a display of marksmanship and combat prowess by Legionary soldiers.  Legionary marksmen took turns firing at crudely painted wooden targets at varying distances, ostensibly to display their acumen and training, although Samantha knew it was really to try and impress her with the potential combat prowess of the Legion.  While she applauded politely -- and could tell the chieftains were very proud of their men's skill -- Samantha was unimpressed.  _Better than the average Raider,_ she mused, _but that’s not saying much._ Their weapons were also nowhere near as well maintained as they might have been, which was clearly affecting their marksmanship.

At a nod from Caesar, his tribunes all took their places on the shooting line as wel, although Samantha could tell by their stone-faced expressions some of them were less than thrilled.  "Well, g'ahead, Vulpes, Alerio, Aurelius!" Caesar urged them, scowling.  "Show this S'manth' 'n' her people what a tribune c'n do!"

The tribunes’ performance was _far_ better than that of the average Legionary; the icy, cruel-looking man that had been introduced as Vulpes Inculta shot with a cool, frightening efficiency.  Alerio could very nearly match him, and Aurelius of Phoenix was almost as accurate.  _They're good,_ she thought, but then her eyes strayed toward her own people.  _But so are we._

"Whaddaya think?" Caesar slurred proudly as his men lowered their weapons.

"Impressive," Samantha said politely.  "May we take a turn?"

Caesar drew back in surprise.  He studied her with his one good eye, considering.  For a moment she had a sense of what the power of the man would have been in his prime.  She met his gaze steadily and in a moment he slurred, "W'll .... sure, why not.  G'ahead.  Le's see what y' c'n do."

A murmur raced through the assembled troops as his tribunes glanced at each other in confusion.  "Lord Caesar," Vulpes Inculta began, "are you sure this _woman_ \-- "

"You quest'nin' my orders, Vulpes?" Caesar asked him softly.

Vulpes shook his head at once.  "Of course not, _Imperator._   You are our light in all things."

 Aurelius of Phoenix didn't seem to get the hint; the big, blocky-looking, brutal man spat in disgust.  "Lord Caesar," he exploded, "you clearly can't be serious.  I won't have my men compete against a _woman_ , and neither will I.  I won't have it!"

Caesar’s good eye flashed dangerously.  He started to speak, but then just as he did, Bright -- with her usual lack of timing -- burst out with her jeering laughter.  _Only a Raider could be quite so contemptuous,_ Samantha thought, hiding an inward grin as Bright's flinty pale eyes fixed on Aurelius.

"Well, if ya can't do it, ya can't do it," she sneered.  "Not too surprisin' you think you'd lose, the way you was shootin'!  A dead mole rat c'd shoot better'n that!"

Aurelius's face grew thunderous, and he actually took a step toward her.  "How _dare_ you speak to me like that, you Profligate filth -- "

_If he thinks he can intimidate Bright, he has a lot to learn_ , Samantha thought.  The ex-Raider, was almost immune to fear.  Now she straightened with startling alacrity, her lips drawing back from her teeth in a shark-like grin, and dropped one hand to her Combat Knife; there was such a feral aspect about her that Aurelius drew back, though he tried to cover his hesitation. 

"Yeah? What'cha gonna _do_ about it, tough guy?  Ya want some?"

One difficulty about bringing Bright along, Samantha knew, was that the ex-Raider had absolutely no de-escalation skills. _"Bright!_ " she snapped, reaching out and gripping her shoulder with one Power Armored gauntlet, while Sean kicked her in the shins on the other side.

_"'Relius!_ " Caesar growled.   "These're 'r _guests._ They have guest-right.  Won' stan' f'r this sort o' insolence from ya, ya got it?"

Aurelius of Phoenix backed down, looking ostentatiously sullen.  "As you command, Lord Caesar," he said, pressing one hand to his chest.  All the same, Samantha suspected that he was glad to have found a face-saving way out.  Bright started to say something, but Sean kicked her in the shins again, and Samantha tightened her grip. 

" _Not now,"_ she said sternly.

"Well, all right," Bright said with obvious displeasure.  "But any time you wanna go, ya just say, big guy," she sneered. 

Quickly, to cover for Bright's rudeness, Samantha nodded to Caesar.  "Thank you," she said.  "We appreciate your hospitality."

With things settling back on an even keel, Caesar seemed to relax; he even laughed a bit, a hacking, strangling sound. " 'S my pleas're, S'mantha," he slurred.  "Be m' guest."  And he waved his one good hand.

Under the watchful eyes of the Legionaries and tribunes, Samantha’s little group moved to take their places on the firing line.

Bright went first with her Hunting Rifle, that favorite Raider weapon.  Samantha watched with interest.  Raiders were often poor shots, but Bright had been considerably above the Raider norm to begin with and had improved remarkably since joining Samantha’s settlement at Tenpenny Tower. She took five shots at the target and hit with all of them, most of them dead center in the chest.

Butch went next with his 10-mm submachine gun, and also did a creditable job, emptying his clip into the human-sized target at the far end of the range.  Star Paladin Cross passed on, smiling and shaking her head as she hefted her massive Super Sledge, her preferred weapon of choice.  Sean Taylor was next with his Plasma Rifle, and his shooting was excellent; he hit the target in center of mass with every shot, and when he finally raised his weapon, there was a look of deep satisfaction on his scarred face.  It had been he, Samantha knew, who had worked with Bright to improve her marksmanship; and that tutelage had gone a long way toward healing the damage between them -- the damage Bright had inflicted on him.

Samantha glanced at Charon then as she raised her Alien Disintegrator.  The big ghoul responded with a slight tightening of the eyes that passed for a smile.  "Together?" she asked him.

"As you command, Mistress," Charon replied in his gravelly voice, his impressive jaw setting.

Together the two of them stepped to the line, side by side, facing their targets.  Samantha glanced at Charon, feeling his solid, reassuring presence at her shoulder.  With him at her side, she felt as if she could take on the world; the two of them had done it, more than once.

"On three," she said.  "One -- two -- three!"

Together they emptied their weapons into the targets at the end of the range.  Charon's Combat Shotgun (a custom job, with a smaller clip and much tighter shot grouping than a regular shotgun) ripped the center of the target's chest completely to shreds by the time he had finished shooting.   As for Samantha ...

_Well, that's one for the Alien Disintegrator at least,_ she thought wryly.  Her weapon disintegrated the target completely on the third shot, leaving nothing but a pile of ash.  She glanced over at Charon, shrugged, smiled, and turned back to Caesar.

"Thank you for the opportunity," she said.

The other legionaries were all staring at her with a mix of disapproval and open amazement.  It was clear they hadn't expected a woman to shoot nearly so well, and Samantha felt a small inward rush of satisfaction.  After a moment, Caesar took enough of a grip on himself to slur, "Pleas'r w's ... w's ours."

_That's for certain,_ she thought, and her eyes fell on that pale, thin, thoughtful man with the non-standard slave collar.  He had remained by Caesar’s side throughout the day.  She might have been mistaken, but as she could have sworn she saw satisfaction in his eyes.  _He's just as glad to see Caesar's legionaries shown up as I am._   Samantha acknowledged his look with an almost imperceptible nod.

After her triumph at the shooting range, the afternoon’s military review lacked enthusiasm.  Her party's display had shaken the confidence of Caesar and his men, and she could feel them regarding her and her party in a new light.  As the Legionaries marched past, they presented an impressive spectacle, but Samantha saw neither Power Armored troops nor energy weapons. The  Praetorians were armed with Ballistic Fists, but she saw nothing stronger than that.  _No heavy infantry and no artillery,_ she thought, with a glance at her Zeta drones.

_But there are so many of them!  A thousand? Two thousand?_ The Capital Wasteland would be hard put to match the Legion’s numbers.  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sean and Star Paladin Cross looking more and more thoughtful as the parade of Legionaries streamed past.

As the final soldiers passed the reviewing stand, Caesar turned toward her and gestured.  "Whaddaya think, S'mantha?" he asked her, with a familiarity she didn't think he had earned.  "'R legion.  There 't 's."

"Very impressive," she replied noncommittally.

It was enough; Caesar burst out laughing.  "Tha's m' girl.  'Pressive indeed!  M' very own Legion, that I built w' my own two han's.  It an' me ... come a long way togeth'r.  We're by far the most f'mid'bl force in th' Wastes."  His one good eye narrowed shrewdly.  “Y'know, we c'd be great allies, you 'n' us.  T'gether," he slurred, in an almost conspiratorial tone.

"Is that so," Samantha said only.

"Strength m' Legion c'n give ya -- well, surely y' c'n see f'r 'self, what an advantage it 'd be.  T' you 'n' y'r Wastes.  We c'd do -- well, what c'dn't we do tgether?"  His half-ruined face contorted in what was surely supposed to be a conspiratorial wink.  "Look at all we've done s'far. Surely better 'n' fight'n, righ'?"  And he tried to smile at her.

"Maybe so," she replied, still noncommittal.

Caesar laughed hoarsely.  "Well ... we're waitin' on that, we 're.  We'll see, smart girl.  We'll see.  But 'nough talk, eh?  I'm bettin y'r hungry.  Know I am.  How about you, Vulpes?" And he glanced at the icy-pale man with the dark glasses.

"As you say, Lord Caesar," Vulpes Inculta said coolly. 

"Well, th'n, if y'll 'company me, we 've quite a ban-- a banquet laid on f'r ya," Caesar slurred.  "None but th' best for our guests.  I don't s'pose y'r two friends there -- " And here he nodded at the two drones Samantha had brought down with her from Mothership Zeta, though of course he didn't know that " -- wd want any?"

"No," Samantha said, understanding he meant this as a joke; she smiled at him a bit, and he laughed a slurred laugh.

"I'd be -- 'd be honored if y'd do me th' honor of sittin' wi' me at the head table as the guest 'f hon’r."

"I'd be pleased," Samantha replied.  Caesar extended her his arm, and it took her a moment for her to understand what he was doing.  _He's trying to offer me his arm -- as if **I** need **his** support._  The idea that she might need him to bear her up -- she, in full Power Armor, while Caesar was half-crippled from his stroke -- was so amusing that she almost laughed; she managed to hold back just in time.

* * *

 

The sun was low in the sky by the time they reached the field to the west of camp, where feasting tables had been set up. Legion standards brightened the perimeter of the field, and long tables had been dragged out from somewhere, with the head table placed crosswise on an elevated platform before which a huge bonfire blazed, brightening the twilight sky and sending up a huge plume of smoke.  Caesar took a seat at the center of  the table, backed by a standard of Mithras, with his chieftains ranged to his left: Vulpes Inculta, that unassuming Alerio, the blockish Aurelius of Phoenix.  Samantha was placed on his right, and her own people were ranged beyond: Butch, Star Paladin Cross, Bright, Sean.  Charon preferred not to sit, taking up a place at her back, guarding her with shotgun at the ready.  Aurelius of Phoenix looked ready to take offense at this, but Caesar silenced him with a barked "'Relius!"

"No offense is meant," Samantha hurried to explain.  "Charon is a member of -- an unusual group of people, and it's just his way."

"Unnerstan'," Caesar slurred.  "Jus' wdn' wan' t' think y' didn' trus' us."  And he managed a laugh.

Caesar opened the proceedings by addressing the gods: "Great Jupiter, Great Mars, Great Mithras, grant us grace to our gathering, know that we are inviting S'mantha an' her people here from the Wastelan'.  Gran' our two peoples friendships an' a grand alliance for many, many years in the future!" He placed a small chunk of meat and a splash of wine into a bowl.  The offerings were then thrown into the blazing bonfire before him. _Nothing to Juno, Queen of the Heavens or Athena, Goddess of War and Wisdom, I see,_ Samantha noted.

After Caesar's speech and the opening sacrifice, servants -- _more probably slaves, by the explosive collars_ \-- moved into the banqueting ground, carrying huge platters of food which they served to the men seated at the tables.  Samantha was decidedly unimpressed by the spread.  The food was simplistic, with lots of Brahmin and molerat meat, with some mutfruits thrown in for variety.  The Capital Wastelands had been feasting on fresh produce courtesy of the efforts of the Rivet City research team for years now, as well as punga fruits brought in from Point Lookout.  Of course, she commented politely how extravagant everything looked, and when Bright started to blurt out something rude, Sean stepped on her foot. 

Caesar had produced a bottle of ancient, pre-war wine for himself, though his officers did not partake and neither did his men.  “F’r my health,” he slurred. “Care f’r some?  Y’r … honored guests, after all.”

“I’m sorry, but I no longer drink,” Samantha said politely.  “You know how hard it is when the chems start getting ahold of you.”

Star Paladin Cross turned it down also.  “Until such time as I am relieved by my commander I am still on duty.  A Paladin may not drink while she is on duty,” Cross explained.

“Heh.  _I’ll_ take some o’ that,” Butch said. 

Bright laughed her assent.  “Hell, me too.  I’ll take a whole bottle if ya got one.”

Sean glared at her behind his mask of cuts, but Caesar slurred a laugh.  “One of you … got some stomach all right.”  He turned and said something unintelligible to one of the women attending the table; she nodded with downcast eyes and hurried off, returning with another bottle of wine for Bright.

Samantha was surprised at the cold fury that filled her as she watched the female slaves move among the Legionaries.  She had dealt with loathsome people before, but her anger now was so strong it was very difficult to be civil.  She could tell by the stony caliber of Star Paladin Cross’s eyes that she felt the same way; but glancing at Bright, she could not decipher the Raider’s thoughtful expression.  Perhaps not surprisingly, Samantha saw no such anger in either Butch’s face or Sean’s;  they didn’t even seem to notice that anything was wrong.  Charon also showed no emotion, but then, Samantha didn’t really expect him to.  She knew from long experience that Charon looked on the world and took it as he found it, expecting it to be neither better nor worse than it was.  She reached back and surreptitiously squeezed the big ghoul’s hand. Charon glanced down at her with his milky eyes; they tightened a bit at the corners, but that was all.

As the banquet began, Samantha noted the arrival of the man she had seen earlier--the man in the white coat and the nonstandard slave collar who had knelt by the side of Caesar’s throne at their first meeting, and who had translated for him.  _What was his name?_ she mused. _Arcade?_   He approached the center of the table with even, controlled strides, and stood there facing Caesar with his head bowed.

“Lord Caesar,” he said quietly.

“ _Iuvenis.”_   Caesar greeted him with a stony stare. “D’ya have somethin to say, young man?”

_Young man?_ Samantha wondered; the man in question looked well north of fifty, and possibly even nearing sixty.  She glanced at Cross and Sean; the Star Paladin was watching with her customary reserved expression, while Sean had furrowed his scarred brow as if he were trying to figure something out.

“Yes, my lord,” the man replied.  “I wish to make a self-criticism.”

“Well, go ‘head then.”  Caesar settled back in his chair.

“My behavior earlier this day was childish, petulant and unacceptable.  I failed to show the full respect and gratitude due to you as leader of this army and as my master.”

 The man’s voice was calm, emotionless.  He spoke as if he had said such things many times before.  Caesar also listened with an air that suggested this was a familiar scene.  Samantha glanced over at Cross, and saw that Cross was watching with some interest.

“Anythin’ else y’d like t’ say, young man?” Caesar slurred.

“That I humbly request your forgiveness for my offense, Lord Caesar.”

Caesar regarded him coolly.  “Granted,” he said at last. “What d’ya suggest f’r penance?”

“That I prepare a written report detailing the ways in which my actions were unacceptable and present it to you by tomorrow morning,” the man said evenly.

Caesar shook his head. “Not good ‘nough.  Sorry, _iuvenis,_ ‘f it was only me you’d offended, I’d accept it, but y’ mouthed off t’ all my officers too.  No, _iuvenis._   You must ‘pol’gize to each one of’ em personally by name, well ‘s this young lady here--“  he gestured at Samantha “--our _guest,_ f’r takin’ up time in the middle of the feast ‘tended f’r her honor.”

The man nodded, quiet and compliant.  “If that is what you command, Lord Caesar.”

“It is.  Get to it,” the warlord ordered.

The man-- _no, the slave, what was his name--Arcade?_ \--turned to Alerio, the first figure on the dais.  “Alerio--your forgiveness?”

Alerio glanced at him with little interest.  “Granted,” he said curtly, and went back to dissecting the slab of Brahmin on his plate.  Arcade turned to the pale Vulpes Inculta next.

“Vulpes Inculta--your forgiveness?”

The corner of Vulpes’s mouth lifted in an unpleasant smirk. “For what?  State it, _slave_.  All of it.  And I am _Domine_ Vulpes Inculta to you.”

Samantha, watching closely, thought she saw Arcade’s shoulders tighten a bit, but perhaps she was mistaken.  In any case, his voice was perfectly level as he said, “Domine Vulpes Inculta, I request your forgiveness for my insolence during the morning briefing.”

Vulpes sat back in his chair, studying Arcade with a small smile.  After a pause just long enough to make it clear he was being sadistic, he nodded.  “Granted,” he said at last.

Arcade addressed Aurelius next. “Domine Aurelius of Phoenix,” he said, again evenly, “I request your forgiveness for--“

“No.”  Aurelius’s brutish expression contorted in a nasty grin.  “Hands and knees, slave.  You want my forgiveness, you _crawl_ for it.  That’s the only--“

“Enough,” Caesar slurred sharply.  The warlord glanced over at his chieftain. “ _Aurelius_ **.** ”

The  legion chieftain was instantly subdued.  He muttered a sullen, “Granted,” and like Alerio, began viciously attacking the steak on his plate.  Caesar turned his attention to Arcade.

“Well, get on ‘th it, iuvenis,” he commanded.

Arcade continued to go down the line of men on the dais, asking forgiveness from every one of them by name; the rest of them-- _perhaps warned by Caesar?_ \--granted him their forgiveness  with no further drama. It was a humiliating performance, but he showed no shame or distress at any of it; he spoke to the lords and to Caesar as quietly and unemotionally as if he were asking about the weather.  If there had ever been any resistance in the man once, Samantha could see, it had long since burned out, leaving nothing but ashes behind.  She wondered what else he would say, had been made to say, in that quiet, dispirited tone. At last, he turned to face her.  The firelight shone off the ring of metal around his neck.

“Domina Samantha,” he said, and his eyes brushed hers and then dropped.  For the first time, a faint flush of crimson stained his pale cheeks.  “I apologize that my conduct has interrupted your welcome to the camp and I humbly request your forgiveness.”

Samantha glanced at Caesar, and then half-rose.  “Granted,” she said clearly, her voice ringing, “but your request was unnecessary.  It’s been instructive.”

Arcade looked up at her now, full on as if trying to read her face.  She saw his brows contract slightly in a frown.   Caesar wheezed a laugh, then looked back at the man.  “Take y’r seat, _iuvenis,_ ” he ordered.  “And I’ll look f’r tha’ r’port on my table in th’ morning.”

Arcade acknowledged with a stiff nod, then moved to the empty chair at Caesar’s right hand.  _Interesting,_ Samantha thought.  Caesar snorted to the young serving women, “Give ‘im s’m extra squirrel stew, girls, w’ need t’ put s’ weight on th’s young man here”--then nudged Arcade, hard.

“Well, dig in, young man, don’t let it get cold.”  At those words, Arcade picked up his utensils and began to eat with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.

Caesar watched him for a moment; then was distracted as an aide approached and whispered to him a few words Samantha could not catch.  “Good,” Caesar grunted and then lurched unsteadily to his feet.  “An’ now, Lady S’mantha, f’r the evenin’ enter—tainment.”  He raised his one good arm and gave that slurred laugh.  “Le … Le … Let th… Games begin!”

_Games?_   It should have been obvious, but somehow it took Samantha a moment to understand.  Then she saw them: two young men, stepping into the space before the bonfire, each armored, one carrying a machete, the other a tire iron, and it suddenly became sickeningly clear what was about to happen.  Despite everything she had seen and done in her years since leaving the Vault, Samantha still felt her gut clench in nausea as the two turned to face Caesar.  Neither of them looked afraid – if anything they looked set, resolute, determined.  They raised their weapons and together chorused:

_“Ave Caesar!  Morituri te salutant!”_

_Hail Caesar, we who are about to die salute you._   Though Samantha did not speak Latin, the meaning of the phrase was more than obvious from context.  _They aren’t actually going to **do** this, are they?_  She shot a glance at Arcade.  The man looked up at her, and the expression in his eyes was more eloquent than anything he could have said.  He looked away as Caesar raised his arm and slashed it down, ordering, “Fight!”

What followed was short and brutal. The two youths closed with each other; there was a flurry of blows exchanged, then the one with the machete managed to trip the one with the tire iron and with a swift strike lopped off his head.  Samantha had known it was coming but she still flinched inwardly at the sound of the blow and the bright spray of red blood, glistening in the firelight.  Almost no sooner had the victor raised his weapon, than two slaves darted forward from the sidelines, scooping up the body with practiced speed and whisking it off into the shadows.  Another man in a centurion’s outfit approached the victor, took his arm and raised it high.  Applause and a few cheers rose from the other Legionaries as the man spoke a few words to the victor, and then drew him off to the side.  The whole thing was accomplished with a sort of terrible efficiency; this was clearly something that the Legion had practiced at – and even as the victor and vanquished vacated the area, Samantha saw to her horror another pair of combatants stepping forward.  _Is this going to go on all **night?**_

Samantha quickly glanced at her companions.  Butch had gone pale, and she suspected he was fighting nausea; he met her eyes with a sort of frantic helplessness.  Sean’s scarred face had hardened to stone, as had Cross’s; Bright on the other hand looked completely unaffected, leaning back with an air of judgement as if mentally critiquing the performance of the fighters. Samantha swung to Caesar, and then stopped and bit her tongue hard, swallowing her first three responses.  At last she managed with some semblance of calm, “What … is this?”

“Tryouts,” Caesar said with that slurred laugh.

_Tryouts …_   Again she glanced at Arcade, and again the man gave her that deeply eloquent look.  She reached for Butch’s hand under the table; he caught hers and clung to it desperately.  It was clear there was nothing they could do.

Fight succeeded fight, new combatants entering as soon as the old ones left or were removed.  The combatants fought with chains, tire irons, baseball bats, machetes, knives and bare hands; every sort of weapon seemed permissible except firearms, and all fights were to the death.  There seemed to be no rules at all and very little finesse; the fighters simply stabbed or pounded on each other until one of them was dead.  Survivors were led off by the centurions Samantha had seen earlier – presumably to be inducted into the Legion on the spot – and the bodies were whisked away somewhere Samantha could not see.  The ground before the fire grew dark and sticky and the reek of blood soon filled the air.

As the combats proceeded to the accompaniment of thuds, the crack of bones breaking and the hoarse cries of pain, Samantha lost what little appetite she had had.  _The stench alone would have accomplished that in any case,_ she thought. Butch shoved away his plate with a nauseated grimace, and Cross and Sean sat motionless with stony expressions.  Bright of course continued to eat with gusto, loudly criticizing the fights taking place and heckling the combatants; Sean glared at her but she didn’t seem to notice.  The other Legionaries in attendance were doing much the same as Bright; cheering on fighters, applauding loudly for their favorites and shouting encouragement or insults.

As she watched the combats, Samantha found her initial horror giving way to a powerful, almost devastating pity for the poor young men fighting before her, who had been brainwashed into thinking this was either necessary or desirable, and along with that an equally deep anger at Caesar who had orchestrated this whole thing.  The man himself watched the spectacle he had created wordlessly, his damaged face unreadable and his one good eye glassy; from time to time he grunted at a particularly good blow, or snorted at a misstep by one of the fighters, but showed no other reaction.  Samantha found herself wanting to demand from him what justification he could possibly have for this, but knew she could not; instead she held her tongue and settled into a disapproving silence.

Star Paladin Cross, hower, apparently had more to say.  Politely, but with steel in her voice she said, “I’m sorry, I still don’t understand.  Who are these men?”

It was Vulpes Inculta who answered, after a glance from Caesar. "They are slaves who are attempting to win a spot in the Legion.  Admission is bestowed by victory in a series of fights, so that we can be sure we only admit the best."

"'S fer y'r benefit, y' know," Caesar slurred.  "Af'r all, y've seen our shootin, now yer gettin' a chance t' see our soldiers in hand-t’-hand combat.  What d'ya think?"  And he gave his choked laugh again. 

"It's something, all right," Samantha said noncommittally.

"Somethin'?!" Bright crowed.  "Lemme tell ya, I'd like t' take a turn.  Show these losers how ta really do it!"  She burst out laughing, until Sean stepped on her foot again. Samantha elbowed her, hard.. 

Caesar at least appeared not to have heard -- or pretended not to, more like; Bright conspicuously lacked anything resembling an "indoor" voice.  The tribunes, however, were glowering at her; Bright met their gazes and laughed. Like any Raider, she seemed completely immune to fear.  Samantha had often wondered if Bright was just too dumb to be afraid.

Now the former Raider stood up.  "Hey!" she called, fixing her attention on Caesar.  "I _said_ , I wanna take a turn.  You gonna let me jump in the ring, or not?"

Her voice rang out across the parade ground; she was starting to draw attention. The current combatants had stopped fighting; a young man with short dark hair and a scar down his face, who was about to step on the throat of a somewhat taller man with black curls, whose knee appeared to have been dislocated and who was sprawled on the ground, groaning.  The young man was looking up at the dais in an attitude similar to the old painting Samantha had seen in a holotape once, of a gladiator standing over his defeated foe.

_"Bright,"_ Sean hissed, stepping on her foot again.  He gripped her arm, but she shoved him away. 

"Lemme alone, Sean," she snarled.  "I'm serious. I wanna get in the ring against them assholes.  I c’n kick all their asses, easy.”  Samantha started to speak, but Bright snorted at her too. "An' _you_ c'n be quiet, Sam.  I know what I’m doin’!"  She addressed Caesar with blatant challenge.  "So?  Whaddaya guys say?  Let me down there, 'r I'll go down myself!"

Caesar's tribunes were fuming.  The blockish Aurelius of Phoenix looked ready to take Bright on himself, while Alerio was impassive.  It was only the pale and reedy Vulpes Inculta who spoke.

"Of course," he said in his high voice, "that is quite out of the question.  _You_ \-- " and he said the word like an epithet " -- are neither a _civis Legionis,_ nor even a man.  These contests are a serious matter. There is no way a Profligate _woman_ would ever be able to defeat one of our warriors, let alone prove herself worthy to enter our Legion, and if she were somehow to do it, we could never allow her to join.  The idea that one of your party might fight one of us -- "

Bright scoffed again.  "Yer jus' afraid yer guy'll lose.  Not that I blame ya -- hell, 'f I fought like these assholes, I'd be afraid I'd fuckin' lose too.  'Sides, who's in charge here?  _You_ , _Vool-peez In-kool-tah_ \-- " she dragged out his name " -- 'r you, Kay-sar?"  She looked directly at Caesar.  "Now c'n I get in the ring 'r not?"

Aurelius of Phoenix started to his feet, growling. "Let me, Lord Caesar.  I'll teach this insolent _woman_ her place -- "

" _Try me,_ " laughed Bright.  "G'wan.  Gimme yer best shot."  She aimed her shark-like, toothy grin at him, and Aurelius flinched back; then seemed to recollect himself with a violent lungein her direction.

Vulpes Inculta quickly said, "It's just that -- you are our guest, Samantha," he said, inclining his head toward her.  "It would not do for one of us to fight your people.  It would be a violation of the laws of ... of hospitality -- "

"Yeah?  Well, I'm sayin' I _want_ t' get in the ring," Bright sneered. "Lookin' at it that way, It'd be a violation of the -- whaddaya call'em -- the laws o' hospitality _not_ t' let me fight!  Whaddaya say t' that, smart guy?"

Vulpes looked taken aback, and inwardly, Samantha spared a moment to feel some sympathy for him; she'd had experience arguing with Bright and her bizarre sort of Raider logic before.   Her eyes went again to that self-effacing blonde man with the non-standard slave collar sitting silently at Caesar's side.  Arcade was watching with unabashed interest; he looked as if he were seeing something he could not quite believe.  His eyes met hers, and something seemed to pass between them. 

_What is that, I wonder ... ?_  

Vulpes started to reply, but Caesar lifted his one good hand.  "V'lpes," he slurred, "sh'up."

Vulpes silenced himself immediately.  He looked as if he had been slapped.  Bright sneered at him triumphantly and again addressed Caesar directly.

"Whaddaya say?  You're the big guy around here.  C'n I get in the ring 'r not?"

Caesar studied her for a long moment, and the undamaged side of his face twitched. He gave the harsh, gurgling sound that seemed to be his laugh.  "Go 'head.  'F ya c'n d'feat one of our Legionaries -- if thr s'lousy they lose t' a  _girl_ \-- th'n they prob'ly d'serve t' get killed.  G'head."  He stopped, seeming to think something grander was required; and with a groan and a convulsive heave, lurched to his feet, holding up his one good hand.  "Le -- Le -- L't th' Games Begin!" he called.

 Such was his charisma and presence -- even damaged as he was -- that Samantha could almost see a ghostly arena complete with cheering crowds around him.

Bright needed no encouragement.  Sean tried to grab at her, but she was too quick.  With a screech of delight, she bounded over the table, shot forward into the dueling area, and closed with the scarred dark haired man who was still standing, barreling into him full speed.

_Shit._ Samantha hissed inwardly, gritting her teeth.  _Goddamn it, I should have told Sean to keep a better watch on her._   Either Bright would get killed herself -- _and I'll be out my liaison to Crystal's Raiders,_ she growled to herself inwardly -- or Bright would kill a member of Caesar's Legion, and there would be a diplomatic incident.  Yet she knew better than to try and stop a Raider from doing what a Raider had decided to do.  She glanced quickly at Star Paladin Cross, and then at Sean, his face set behind the mask of cuts; Sean met her eyes and grimaced, while Star Paladin Cross simply gave a slight shrug.

The young dark-haired man clearly hadn't expected an attack of such speed and ferocity; Bright had gone straight for what Cross sometimes called "the prison-yard rush."  She smashed into him and knocked him off balance. He stumbled backward and for a moment it looked like he would fall; Bright’s teeth were bared in a shark-like grin. 

The man’s eyes darted uncertainly toward Bright and then toward Caesar; he was obviously afraid of offending their honored guests by killing one of their number and he didn't know what to do.  Then Bright lunged at him again and he barely evaded her.  A set expression came over his face as he realized that this was a life or death struggle.  _Also,_ Samantha suspected, _he doesn't want to lose to a woman._ Rumor said the members of Caesar's Legion believed that if they were killed by a woman, they were denied an afterlife in the Elysian fields.

There was a deadly look to Bright’s face that Samantha hadn't seen in years, and she wondered if this Legion boy really knew what he was up against. Bright lunged at him again and the two of them traded a flurry of blows. They struggled, locked limbs and appeared to be trying to throw each other; he went down, rolled, came up again, caught Bright's leg, and hurled her to the ground, but she grabbed him and pulled him down with her.  They rolled over and he ended up on top, with his hands around Bright's neck. Samantha’s hand went by instinct to her weapon --

When she saw the glint of metal in Bright’s hand.  Bright had pulled her combat knife, and was holding the edge to his throat.

The youth seemed to realize it at the same time Samantha did.  He froze at once, not knowing what to do.

_Well, maybe he doesn't, but I know what Bright's going to do --_   Samantha rose to her feet, at the same time as Caesar burst out laughing.

"What a girrrll!" he cried, and though the words were slurred, they were clear enough for Samantha to catch his meaning.  "G'ahead.  Finish it, Raider girl, an’ I’ll let _you_ in th’ Legion!"

"Bright, don't you dare!" Samantha shouted desperately.  "Put the knife down, and come back here!"

Bright sat up, shoving her opponent aside.  Her eyes still held that feral gleam, and for a moment, Samantha wondered if she would heed her, but the Raider sneered and sheathed her dagger. "Ahhh, he ain't worth it anyway."

The young man's face colored.  He looked both angry and humiliated.  Caesar gave a snort. "H's be'er off dead,” the imperator said.  “'S th' rule in the Legion."

"It's not my rule.  Or ours," Samantha said, keeping her temper with an effort.

Caesar shrugged.  "Suit yrself.  He's yrs now."

Bright bounced to her feet, looking smug and vicious; she shoved her opponent, sneering, "Y'hear that?  Ya come with me now!" 

The young man's angry flush deepened.  For a moment, he looked as if he wanted to lunge at her, but that gleam in her eyes stopped him.   _Smart move_ , Samantha thought. She spared a glance at Sean, to see what the former Enclave soldier thought of Bright's little conquest -- he and Bright had a history together, and while it was all right between them now, indeed, more than all right, it had once been very, very rocky indeed.  Sean was watching expressionlessly behind his mask of cuts, but Samantha thought she saw a hint of grim amusement there.

"Ya wanna go?" Bright taunted her conquest. "Ya wanna go?  C'mon, I'll kick yer ass!"

"Bright, _knock it off_ ," Samantha commanded.  "Get back here, both of you and sit down."

"Awww, awright," Bright scowled, but she strode back to her place at the table.  Her new captive followed, his head down, looking angry and ashamed.  Watching him, Samantha reached back and nudged Charon imperceptibly: _Keep an eye on him._   She wouldn't put it past the young man to maybe try to stick a knife in Bright's back, once he got the chance.  Charon squeezed her hand in response.

Bright slipped into her seat, turning to her captive.  "You sit _there,_ y'hear me?" Bright sneered, pointing to the ground beside her chair.  His eyes flashed with anger, and she clouted him, hard, on the side of his head. "Sit yer ass down, got it?"

" _Bright,"_ Samantha hissed, nudging her.  "Knock it off, you hear me?"

"Jus' doin what I have to," Bright laughed.

The young man looked like he wanted to attack her, but stopped and bowed his head.  Samantha could see the muscles in his jaw work.  Stiffly, he lowered himself to the ground where she commanded, knotting his fists in his lap and glowering at the earth in front of him. 

Samantha frowned, troubled, but had no time to ponder this turn of events.  Caesar tried to rise to his feet, struggled, and almost collapsed back into his chair before he gripped the shoulder of the blonde-haired man at his side. "So. S'mantha of th' Wastes.  Y've seen what ... wha' our Legion c'n do.  What we are.  Y've seen how -- how good we are in battle ... "  Samantha could feel Bright's vicious grin beside her.  "Y'c'n see how strong we are.  Y' know how good ... how ... how good we'd be t'gether, y'r Wasteland an' us.  S' what ... whaddaya think?"

"I think your organization is certainly very impressive," Samantha said diplomatically.

"Heh.  Impressive enough for you t' want an 'liance w'th us?" he asked bluntly.  That single good eye bored in on her like an augur. _In his prime_ , Samantha thought, _he must have been a force to be reckoned with_ ; even now, that direct gaze had a laser-like intensity.

"I cannot say,” she answered.  “You must understand, this is not a decision I can make by myself; we were sent as an envoy only. I cannot speak for the settlements.  Before we can give you an answer, we will have to return to our outpost and consult with our people."

"Heh."  A crestfallen look came over Caesar’s ruined features.  "Y' can't make 'ny decision yrself? Thought you w're the _leader_."

"No, the individual settlements of the Capital Wasteland are independent from each other.  I'll have to let you know after I've spoken with my people."

"'N how long's that gonna take?" Caesar slurred.  "Y' have t' go all th' way back to the Wastes t' do it?"

 "That won't be necessary.  We can give you our answer by tomorrow." 

She studied him to see what he made of that -- not even the Brotherhood of Steel had long distance communication anymore -- but Caesar seemed to take her comment in stride.

"Heh.  Awright then," he slurred.  "R'member -- an 'liance b'tween our peoples.  You grant us land t' settle, contribute some -- s’m resources t’ help us, and maybe send some men t' join the Legion, an' we'll keep the peace an' defend y'r Wastes.  It'll work f'r both of us.  Tell us what y'r people think."

"I will."  Samantha rose, and as if on cue, the rest of her team rose with her.  Bright aimed a kick at her new prisoner, who jerked violently, but settled back.  He rose too, every muscle in his body stiff..  "Thank you for your hospitality and for our entertainment, Lord Caesar," Samantha said, bowing.  "It's certainly been an edifying and informative evening."

"F'r us as well," Caesar said with a laugh.  "D' y' need an escort?  Say the word an' I'll sen' some Legionaries with ya -- "

"No, that won’t be necessary, but I appreciate the offer.  We will return to our base tonight and speak to our people."

"I'll send someone t'ya t'morrow t' get yer answer," said Caesar, leaning with one hand on the table. "May we work well with ya in the future!"

"I certainly hope so.”

At Samantha’s gesture, her party formed up, the two Guardian Drones falling in behind.  As they proceeded to the entrance, Samantha kept an eye on Bright's new legionary in the middle of their column. That high color remained in his cheeks, and, he kept his eyes on the ground, avoiding his erstwhile comrades. Bright was watching him with a possessive gleam in her eyes.  She looked very proud of herself; after all, by Raider rules, she had gotten herself a prisoner. _And what on earth are **we** going to do with him?_

She didn't know.  But as they left the castrum and stepped out onto the road into the Wasteland, she knew that was the least of their worries.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Author’s Note:**   Sorry for the delay, had a really tough time revising this one.  Still not happy with it.  Thanks to **LadyKate1** who betaed!

* * *

 After seeing the Wasteland party off, Caesar ordered his tribunes to retire to his command tent. 

" _You_.  C'm w' me ... _iuvenis_."  He leaned hard on Arcade's shoulder; Arcade winced, doing his best to bear up under Caesar’s weight.  For himself, Arcade’s thoughts were taken up with Samantha. 

 _She lives up to her reputation.  More than,_ Arcade thought wistfully. There was something about her -- her aura, perhaps -- that touched him in strange ways.  _Can she really be what she seems?_

He had little time to contemplate it as they pushed through the entrance flap of the command tent.  Caesar’s tribunes were waiting for them -- Vulpes, Aurelius of Phoenix, Alerio.  _His brain trust,_ Arcade thought sardonically.   He assisted Caesar to his chair, and the big man fell heavily into it.  The tribunes bent over the map table; Caesar's praetorian guard stood along the walls.

"So," Caesar slurred.  "Now y've ... y've seen 'er.  Whaddaya think?"

The tribunes glanced at each other, looking uneasy; no one wanted to say anything first, it seemed. Caesar directed a cold glare at Vulpes. 

 _"You._ V'lpes.  Whaddaya think?"

Vulpes shifted uncomfortably.  "She is ... not what I expected."

"Not what y' expected.  Heh.  No, she's not that.  Aurelius?"

An uncharacteristically troubled expression crossed the big man’s brutish, blocky features.  "Agree with Vulpes,” he said tersely, then hesitated.  “I would never have thought that a _woman_ could fight so well."

"Y' talkin' bou' wh'happened at th’ shooting range?"

Aurelius looked confused for a moment as he pondered the question. Arcade knew the man was not overburdened with brains; he was clearly trying to wrap his mind around the surprising proficiency of Samantha and her party with weapons.  For Arcade himself the performance of Samantha's group, including Samantha herself, at the shooting range -- _and_ the fight between her Raider girl Bright and the legion hopeful -- had filled him with  a wonderful backhanded elation.

"The shooting range, yes, Lord Caesar, but also  ... " Here Aurelius looked uneasy.  Arcade knew why.  It was an article of faith among the Legionaries, especially the higher echelon, that no woman was any man's equal in anything, much less in physical combat. Bright's defeat of the young Legionary hopeful had shown that up for the lie it was, and Aurelius was clearly outraged.  Now he burst out, "Her follower. Bright.  The one who defeated the young slave -- "

 _Not a Legionary, or even a Recruit,_ Arcade mused sardonically, _but a slave._

"She cheated.  She _must_ have.  It shows how little honor they have, that this Samantha person would have such a one in her retinue.  You should have let me punish her, Lord Caesar -- execute her for her attack on a legionary -- "

Caesar gestured sharply with his good hand.  " _Quiet_ , 'Relius," he slurred, and Aurelius immediately fell silent, looking chastened.  He turned a look on Alerio. "You, 'Lerio.  Wha' you think?"

The head of Caesar's _frumentarii_ frowned in thought.

"I can't say, Lord Caesar," he said at last.  "It is difficult because from what she said, she cannot make the decision to offer us an alliance on her own."

"Y' b'lieve tha' 'bou' her no' bein' in charge?" Caesar slurred. "Tha' she has t'go back an' c'fer with 'er people?"

Alerio's frown deepened.  "It would fit with the decentralized nature of the Capital Wasteland.  But I simply don’t understand how it will be possible for her to confer with all of the settlements and gain their answers by sunrise tomorrow -- "

Caesar gave a slurred, somewhat cynical laugh.  "Don' y' worry 'bou that. There're ... ways.  Tha's f'r sure.  But wha' I wanna know is ... y'think they'll 'gree?  Think they’ll... have an 'liance w'th us?  Anyone?" 

His one good eye roamed them all.  Vulpes was the first to answer, "I cannot say, Lord Caesar."

Aurelius scoffed.  "I don't think we should even _try_ to ally with her.  She's a woman, and her people are led by women!  Surely, Lord Caesar, we can do better!  We deserve better allies than -- "

"' _Nough,_ 'Relius," Caesar slurred more harshly than before.  "'Lerio?"

Alerio shook his head.  "I wouldn't like to hazard a guess, Lord Caesar," was all he said. 

"Heh."  Caesar snorted, looking with disgust at them all. "'Bout wha' I thought y'd say." His roving gaze fell on Arcade.  " _You_.  Y'r gonna get her answer.  T'morrow."

Arcade started; he hadn’t expected this.  "Me?" he asked, confused.  "Why me?" Seeing Caesar's irritation he quickly amended, "If you insist, Lord Caesar, then of course I will obey ... but I don't understand why you want to send me."

That eye narrowed.  "'Cause she clearly h's more r'spect f'r you th'n any o' th rest o' us." Arcade swallowed as he realized Caesar had seen the byplay between himself and Samantha during the course of the day.  "Y'r goin' t' her tomorrow, t' get her answer.  An' ... don' get any _ideas,_ " he slurred menacingly.  "Y' know why."

 _Claudia and Daedrus._   Arcade did indeed know why.  He exhaled, feeling as if a heavy weight just settled on his shoulders.  "Yes, Lord Caesar.”

" _Good._ " Caesar gave him a hard look. "All right everyone.  Dismissed!"

And yet, as the meeting broke up, Arcade felt a brief, sharp thrill.  He was going to have a chance to speak to Samantha -- alone.

_Surely something's got to come out of it ... right?"_

He could only hope.

* * *

The moon shone overhead as the small party followed the remains of the pre-war road back to the Brotherhood outpost.  The forward outpost had been a local fire station before the war; it was a two-story brick building with a large series of bays for fire trucks.  The outpost had been established several years ago, around the time Sarah Lyon had taken over most of her father’s responsibilities; Elder Lyon was growing increasingly feeble in his old age. More aggressive than her elderly father, Sarah Lyon had begun working to expand the Brotherhood's presence throughout the Capital Wasteland.  Outpost 13, named for the faded number painted on the crumbling side of the building, was right at the edge of the territory that loosely defined the Wastes.  Crystal's Raiders were beyond; after a series of skirmishes, she and the Brotherhood had come to the conclusion that it would be better for everyone if she took her Raiders and moved out of the Wastes.  They had settled beyond the western hills.  There was some trade and exchange between the Wastes and Crystal's Raiders; Outpost 13 was a sort of trading post, located as it was on the frontier between the two.  Raiders passed through now and then, as did merchants and caravaners willing to risk going out beyond the boundaries of the Wastes. 

It had been Crystal's Raiders who had first spotted the massive body of troops that turned out to be Caesar's Legion; they had immediately passed the word back to the Wasteland through that very outpost.  The Raider Queen was no fool; such a large group of armed men moving into the Wastes could mean nothing good for her, and she was more than willing to work with the Brotherhood for her own interests.

A hush hung over Samantha’s party as they moved along the broken roadway.  The presence of Caesar's ex-Legionary in their midst -- even as their prisoner – cast a pall over the whole group.  Aside from their footsteps, the only sound was the humming of Samantha's two Guardian Drones bringing up the rear. The prisoner trudged along, head down, face sullen.  Samantha wondered what he was thinking. 

 _Well, he’s not a spy, at least,_ she mused.  Caesar would have had no way of knowing Bright would pull a stunt like that -- _hell_ , Samantha thought, **_I_** _hardly expected it._   She glanced over at the ex-Raider, who was swaggering along with a self-satisfied smirk on her face; from time to time she would send a sneering glance at the Legionary, which he met with a tight jaw and hostile glare.  _Clearly no love lost there.  No, definitely not a spy_ \-- _but that doesn't mean he can be trusted.  If he thought he might have a chance to get back in the Legion --_  She resolved to question him closely as soon as they returned to the station.

The two-story cement block square of the station loomed ahead as they came around the bend of a road and up a slight rise.  It was surrounded by the rusted remains of a chain link fence.  Brotherhood soldiers had dragged concrete road dividers across the gap where the gates had once been to form a checkpoint.  Four Knights were on duty armed with miniguns; now one of the bulky figures lifted its weapon. 

 _"Halt,_ " came the synthesized voice.  _"Identify yourself."_

"It's me, Samantha -- we’re back from the Legion encampment.”

The Knight -- no, actually, Knight-Captain; Samantha saw the stripes on her massive vambraces -- lowered her Minigun.  " _Welcome back, Samantha, from all of us at Outpost 13,"_ she said, and Samantha could hear the smile in her voice.  _"But who's that with you?  I don’t recognize him."_

"It's ... a long story," Samantha said with a glance at the young man, who was still looking sullen and unhappy.  "Just know he’s with us."

 _"If you say so, Samantha,_ " said the Knight-Captain dubiously, but she stood aside.  " _You can go on in._ "

At her gesture, Samantha's little party proceeded through the checkpoint, across the concrete apron around the building into the station’s large cavernous fire-truck bays.  The interior of the fire station consisted of a maze of administrative and office rooms on the right side, while on the left were storage space, living and working areas.  Additional living and sleeping quarters were on the second floor over the fire bays.  The bays held weapons lockers and Power Armor storage and maintenance racks; even at this late hour, several Knights were tinkering with their armor under the glare of work lights.  A woman with short red hair and a deeply tanned face, wearing an under-armor jumpsuit, straightened from her armor and came to meet them as soon as they stepped in.  Samantha recognized Knight-Paladin Minerva, the outpost’s commander and a good friend of Sarah Lyon’s back in the days of Lyon's Pride.

"Samantha," she said, then "Star Paladin Cross.  Welcome back.  How did your mission go?"  Then she caught sight of the Legionary boy in their ranks and her gaze sharpened.  "Who’s this? What’s he doing here?"  One hand almost unconsciously moved to her hip where she carried a laser pistol.

"Don't worry," Samantha hastened to assure her.  “He’s all right." _I think,_ she amended mentally.  She turned and looked back at her friends.  The Guardian Drones were already heading to their charging stations at opposite sides of the Bay; now she waved at the rest of the party.  "Bright, Cross, Butch, Sean, Charon -- dismissed.  You," she said, pointing at the Legionary boy.  "Stay here.  I want to speak to you."

He nodded assent, though he still looked sullen.  His brows were a shade darker than his hair, over eyes that were bit too soft of a brown to give the sinister impression that he probably would have liked.  A thin scar ran down the side of his face.  Samantha wondered where he had gotten it from. 

"All right.  Follow me," she said, and he nodded again, saying nothing.

She led him through the door on the side of the bay into a corridor where she found an unused office area.  Stepping into it, she closed the door behind her and turned to face him.  He was still avoiding her eyes. 

"All right, kid," she said, not unkindly.  "What's your name?"

Now he gave her a quick sidelong glance.  "My real name or my Legion name?" They were the first words he had said since joining them.

"What do you mean, your real name?" she asked, intrigued.

"I wasn't always a Legionary," he flashed with some pride.  "I had to _earn_ my chance.  Although ... I guess I'm not a Legionary now, anymore.”  His shoulders slumped and he seemed to give up, almost all at once. 

Samantha couldn't help but feel for him.  _Poor guy.  I'm guessing this is not what he expected when he got up this morning._

"What will you do with me now?" He sounded apprehensive.  "Will you interrogate me?"

"Let's just start with your name," Samantha said again, trying to put the kid at ease.  _He seems like he's about to crawl out of his skin, what on earth did Caesar and his Legionaries tell him about us?_ As he looked at her uncertainly, she clarified, "Either one will do."

He lowered his eyes for a moment, as if thinking.  He had the most gorgeous dark eyes, Samantha thought, though the thick black brows above them gave him a somewhat sullen look.  At last he looked back up at her.  "My _Legion_ name," he said, again, with self-evident pride, "is Darius."

"And your non-Legion name?" Samantha pressed him

"Cole."  The word seemed to be dragged out of him.

"Cole.  Which would you prefer to be called?" she asked.

He looked up at her, startled.  _This poor kid can't possibly be more than nineteen, and I'd be surprised if he were even that old,_ she mused.

His brows furrowed suspiciously.  "Why?"

Samantha sighed. "Because I would like to call you what you prefer to be called, that's all.  It's up to you.  What would you prefer?"

"Nobody's ever asked me anything like that before.” He frowned.  “ I suppose -- I suppose I would prefer to be called Darius.  The name I _earned_ ," he said with more conviction.  "Yes.  Darius."

"Darius it is then," Samantha said.  "And I'm Samantha."

"I know who _you_ are," he said with a trace of scorn.  "We all do."

"Well, good, then that saves me introducing myself," Samantha said with determined cheerfulness.

"What are you going to do with me?" he asked again, and now, despite his attempt to hide it, there was a hint of fear in his face.  "Am I yours now, or -- or that Profligate woman's?  Will you give me back to her?"

“You mean Bright?”

"Is -- is that her name?  Bright?"  Darius visibly steeled himself.  "If I must go to her -- then I will not protest."  He swallowed hard.  Again, Samantha wondered what he had been told about Profligates.

"No," she told him firmly.  "You're not going to Bright."  Bright, Samantha mused, would probably pitch a fit when she learned her prisoner was being taken away, but too bad. "I'm in charge here -- well, at least in charge of Bright -- and I won't let her take you."

 _"You?_ "  Darius looked at her, startled.  "But .... you are a -- " He stopped himself; the words _but you're a woman_ hung in the air.   "I see.   Then it is you I must obey," he said with sudden resolve.

"Now, now, now, let's calm down a bit," Samantha told him.  "What I want to know right now is, what will _you_ do?”  At his look of confusion, she clarified, “Try to escape?  Try to back to Caesar's Legion?  Maybe take them information about us?”  _I doubt he'll tell the truth, but it will be interesting to hear what he has to say._    But Darius was already shaking his head, his expression set and desperately unhappy.

"I can't.  Caesar's Legion would never take me back.  I was proven to be unworthy of them -- defeated by a Profligate woman."  His jaw trembled.  "Caesar's Legion is closed to me.  Caesar himself said that I was to go with you, and so I shall. No."  He shook his head again.  "My only chance for honor now is to commit myself to you and to serve you as I would Caesar." 

Suddenly, much to her startlement, he went down on one knee before her.  "Samantha, leader of the Profligates," he said, "I give you my oath on my life and my honor, calling the Almighty Jove and Mithras the Bull to witness, that I will follow and heed you all my days or till you say otherwise, placing my life at your disposal.  There," he said.  "That is the same oath I was to take -- would have taken -- before Caesar.  But I suppose you must be Caesar to me now."  And as he said that, he looked so completely bereft that Samantha wanted to give the kid a big hug.

Instead, she said, "All right, all right.  That's enough.  Get up, kid.  Darius," she corrected.  He got up, standing in front of her, slim, tall and proud, trying to appear stoic and seeming utterly lost.   She tried her best to sound gentle.  "I appreciate your promise, Darius, but right now, let's get you a place to stay and something to eat.  You must be hungry." 

Darius swallowed nervously but said nothing.  She looked him in the eyes.  "I'm going to take a chance on you: I'm going to trust you until you give me reason not to.  Do you understand?"

He nodded, setting his jaw.

"All right.  Come on, let's go find the Quartermaster."

* * *

The Quartermaster for the outpost was Scribe Bigsley, the man who had been in charge of Aqua Pura distribution in the early days after Project Purity.   His disposition had not improved much since then.  When Samantha told him who Darius was, his eyebrows rose.  "You want quarters for him?  May I suggest the holding cells?"

Samantha shook her head.  “I've already told him: I'm going to trust him until he gives me reason not to."

"I have sworn my oath to her,” Darius added. “I will not attempt to escape or to betray you all.”

Bigsley was clearly unimpressed.  “Words are easily spoken and easily broken.  But if you vouch for him, Samantha … " He paused. "I suspect putting him in the general quarters with the rest of the Knights and Paladins would be a bad idea.  He can go near you.  And no matter _what_ you say, I'm putting a guard on his door."

Samantha glanced at Darius, but the former Legionary bowed his head in acknowledgement.  "I will obey.”

Bigsley led them through the network of offices, many of which were being used as sleeping cubicles for the Brotherhood, till he came to a former storage closet at the end of the hall, equipped now with a lantern and mattress.  He spoke briefly into his commlink, and two Knights appeared, clanking down the hall in their armor. 

"This is a Legionary -- ” Bigsley trailed off, as if searching for an adequate description.  “A Legionary,” he said with a grimace, “and he's going in here.  Samantha will take him with her when she returns to Tenpenny Tower,  but until then you two guard him and see that he’s brought rations.  He stays in here unless Samantha says otherwise."

The Knights’ response crackled through their speakers: _“Understood, sir.”_

"I will not resist," Darius affirmed, stepping inside the small closet.  Samantha saw him sit down on the mattress inside and wrap his arms around his knees, resting his head on them, before the Knights closed the door. 

 _What **are** we going to do with him?_ she wondered again.

 Bigsley the Quartermaster faced her with a faintly ironic expression.  "Anything else I can do for you today?"

"I'll need use of the conference room, and of your communcations array later this evening." she said.  "If that's all right with you, of course." 

Bigsley sighed. "Sure, why not.  We weren't using it for anything else anyway.  Go ahead, I’ll make sure the transmitter’s free for you."

While he was doing that, Samantha quickly went and collected the rest of her team.  They filed into the large main conference room and chose seats around the long table. Everyone settled into their chairs, looking thoughtful and quiet; a sense of solemnity hung in the air. 

"All right," Samantha said once everyone was seated.  "We’ve all seen the Legion, met Caesar, heard his offer.  What do you all think?"

Bright snorted.  "I'll tell ya what _I_ think:  I think he's gettin' high on his own supply.  He actually thinks his Legionaries c'n take down Crystal's Raiders? Hell no!  I think Crystal might just hafta show 'im a thing 'r two."  She shook her head in disgust. 

 _Well, that's Bright heard from,_ Samantha thought with amusement.  "Butch?" she asked.

 The former leader of the Tunnel Snakes frowned in thought.  "Here’s what I think, Sam," he said. "I think they're scared.  There’s somethin' about them makes me think they ain't doin' too well. I think they need us more than we need them, but they're afraid t' show it."

Samantha studied him.  Butch played dumb a lot, but he was a great deal smarter than he let on -- or gave himself credit for.  Over the years, she had learned to listen to his opinions – in particular to appreciate his insight into a certain macho mentality and his knack for predicting how those types would react.  He was also -- or had grown to be, in the years since he had come out of the Vault -- surprisingly empathetic at times; it had been he that had made the first overtures to Sean, despite the ex-Enclave soldier's veneer of hostility toward everyone.

"What makes you say that?" she asked now.

"Ahhh, just little things.  F'rinstance, they don't seem like the type o' guys who generally prefer to _ask_ if they're strong enough t' take, if ya get my drift. The fact that they need to _ask_ us if we want 'em in the Wastes kinda sez t' me they know they don't have what it takes to beat us."  He shrugged, rolling his shoulders a bit.  "Just my two caps, Sam, take it f'r what it's worth."

"I see," Samantha said.  "Thanks, Butch."  She turned   "Star Paladin Cross?"

Cross’s face set like iron.  "I think we should have nothing to do with them."

"I thought you'd say that.  What are your reasons? I would like to hear them."

Cross nodded.  "There are many, and I suspect most of them are known to you. "  She paused, as if to order her thoughts.

"First of all, this Legion is, as Mr. DeLoria there would say," she said with a glance at Butch, "clearly 'bad news.'  If we were to allow them to settle here, I suspect within a year they would be making war on nearby settlements.  They are essentially a rampaging horde, and no accommodation with anyone like that is possible.  Any treaty made with them wouldn't be worth the paper it's printed on.

"Second," she went on, ticking it off on her fingers, "I concur with Mr. DeLoria's assessment that they are nowhere as strong as they appear to be."

"You _what?_ " Butch asked comically.

Samantha grinned.  "She thinks you're right, Butch."

"I am?  I mean -- I mean, of course I am," he said with more confidence, looking absurdly proud of himself.

"Yes," Cross affirmed.  “The Legionaries’ own account does not bespeak a history of strength; by their own admission, they were soundly defeated, lost a battle, and have been wandering ever since, unable to find a place to settle. Their leader gives every impression of being seriously unbalanced," she added with a frown. "But it is clear that he is not the type to ask if he can take.  They are _asking_ for our support now only because they are not in a position of strength.  And that leads me to my other point .... "  She paused and looked at Samantha again.

"The strongest reason not to ally with these people -- so strong that I would argue against allying with them even if the other reasons did not hold -- is that these people are – “  She paused for a moment as if considering.  “Evil,” she said finally.  “These people are evil.  We cannot trust them to keep their word, and even if we could, they do not _deserve_ the honor of our alliance.  To ally with them would be to sully ourselves.  There is an old saying: 'it is better to die on one’s feet than to live on one's knees.’ It would be better that we fight them even to the death, because to do otherwise would be to betray all that we hold dear."

Her dark eyes locked on Samantha's and Samantha saw the steel in them -- as strong as that which had given the Brotherhood its name.  She felt a like-ness, a kindred spirit, between Paladin Cross and herself. _She feels like I feel ... she thinks like I think,_ Samantha thought.

Cross was right – the Legionaries couldn’t be trusted.  _All of them?_   Darius flashed through her mind.  Did his word that he wouldn’t escape mean nothing too?  She pushed it aside, thinking that she would have to deal with it later.

"Yes," she said aloud.  "Your thoughts are mine, Paladin."

Cross nodded in acknowledgement, and Samantha felt, perhaps irrationally, like she had just been given a medal.  She turned next to her oldest friend and longest-serving companion.

"Charon," she said quietly.  "What do you think?"

In days gone by, she wouldn't even have bothered to ask; it had taken years to get Charon to begin voicing his own opinion -- to acknowledge that he even _had_ an opinion -- but once she had managed to break through that barrier, she had been consistently impressed by Charon's calm, sober, reasoned insight.  Now, the big ghoul eyed her, then clasped his hands behind his back.

"Mistress, you have asked for my thoughts," he said in his low, gravelly voice.  "I will give them to you as you request.  My thoughts ... "  He paused.  A frown flitted across his ravaged features.  At last he nodded to himself.

"I think," he said slowly at last, "that Caesar's Legion are men without ... honor."  Samantha listened raptly; she knew how much weight Charon gave that word and what it meant to him to say it.  When he had told her once that he thought she was honorable, it had been one of the highest accolades he was capable of; to hear him pass that judgement on Caesar's Legion was damning.  "As Star Paladin Cross says," he said with a nod to the Paladin, "an agreement with them cannot be trusted. They are not strong.  They only pretend to be.  And it is not worth ... as she termed it, _sullying_ ourselves ... to contract with them if they are not strong enough to offer us anything."   He leveled his filmy eyes at Samantha.  "My thoughts.  Consider them as you will."

Samantha nodded. “Thank you, old friend." She looked toward Sean now, the ex-Enclave soldier lounging against a wall in his Power Armor, his scarred face thoughtful.

"Sean?  What do you think?"

Sean considered for a moment, then shrugged.  "I ... pretty much agree with everything that has been said so far.  I know something about people like these," he said with a snort.  "They’re bad news, and they’re nowhere near as strong as they want us to think they are.  There is one thing .... " He paused, his eyes shadowing.

"Yes?"

"That man -- Caesar's personal slave.  You remember -- he made the apology to the members of Caesar's council at the banquet?"

Samantha nodded.  "What about him?"

"There was something ... " He shook his head again, as if trying hard to remember something.  "I don't know what, I can't put my finger on it.  I know I’ve never seen him before but there’s something about him that seems – familiar, somehow.  I'll let you know if I figure it out."  He shrugged.  "Anyway, my take on it is the same as the others; in no case should we ally with these people.  They're brutes, nothing but trouble, and not worth it."  He fixed her with a look.  "Trust me when I say I know what I’m talking about."

"Point taken," Samantha said.  She regarded them all. "Thank you for your observations.  I'll take them into account when I speak to the settlements this evening.  You're all dismissed.  Except for you, Sean," she said.  "I need your help."

Sean nodded, unsmiling behind his scars, as the others filed out.  In the years since Bright had captured him and separated him from the Enclave, Sean had proved himself invaluable more than once.  His deep insight into the Enclave mindset had proved immensely helpful on more than one occasion; his skill with Enclave technology, even more so.  Not least of which had been the Enclave's communications devices.  Thanks to Sean, the Wasteland settlements were now linked by a realtime communications network built from captured ad repaired Enclave communicators – a revolutionary change which had brought enormous benefits to the entire Wasteland.

 _I guess we have the Enclave to thank for some things after all,_ she mused.

Now, Sean and Samantha filed out of the conference room and down the hallway to what had been the radio room in the old days and which now served as the communications center for the Brotherhood outpost. 

Samantha watched as Sean took a seat at the small desk inside the brightly lit cubicle and powered up the communications set.  The small, conical device with glowing rings around its antenna lit up and began to hum.  Samantha could use the set too in a pinch, but Sean was better at it; he had a way with technology.  The crackling static of an open channel filled the room.  Sean manipulated a few more dials, then nodded.

"You can speak now.”

It had been arranged in advance that Samantha would speak with the Wasteland settlements at this time.  She knew they were listening, as she took a seat at the desk and spoke into the microphone.

"Wasteland settlements, this is Samantha at Outpost 13.  Come in.  Repeat, Wasteland Settlements, this is Samantha at Outpost 13. Do you read?  Wasteland Settlements -- "

The air waves crackled and voices began to speak out of the air.  The first time Samantha had heard this, she had found it to be as magical as anything out of a book, like a miracle of the ancients.  Even her upbringing in the Vault hadn’t exposed her to anything like this.

 _"Gob from Megaton, reporting in.  Hi there, Samantha."_   Gob and Nova had taken over as leaders of Megaton after the death of Moriarty and the victory over the Enclave.

 _"Laura Danvers from Rivet City, reporting in,"_ came the crisp, no-nonsense crackle of the Rivet City Security Guard.

 _"Treefather Birch from Oasis.  Harold gives his greetings,"_ the Oasis Elder reported in. 

"Tell Harold I say hi back," Samantha said, grinning.

 _"Sarah Lyons from the Citadel,_ " came Sarah Lyons's voice, as crisp and precise as Danvers's.

 _"Hannibal Hamlin, from the Lincoln Memorial._ "

 _"Winthrop, from Underworld. What have ya got for us?"_ rasped the old Ghoul.

 _"Rosie here, from the Republic of Rosie.  We're listening,"_ the woman's voice rang out in the small cubicle.

 _"Uncle Roe from Canterbury Commons.  Been waiting to hear you,"_ came the man's voice.

 _"Murphy, from Tenpenny Tower."_   The old ghoul was holding down the fort at Tenpenny Tower in Samantha's absence.  _"How are ya, Sam?"_

_"Sonora Cruise on behalf of the Regulators."_

_"Evan King and this is Arefu."_

_"Red here from Bigtown."_

_"This is Suzie from Little Lamplight,"_ came the high tones of a child.  Samantha had not wanted to include them, but Suzie, the new mayor of Little Lamplight, had insisted that they  could do their part.  And -- Samantha had to admit -- the children of Little Lamplight were tougher and more mature than children of other Settlements.

_"Amata here from Vault 101.”_

_"Crystal here, from Crystal's Raiders.  Shoot, Armor Chick,"_ came the not-so-dulcet voice of the Raider Queen.

 _That’s everybody_ then.  She hadn't expected Sierra Petrovita to chime in from Girdershade; that really wasn't a settlement so much as a wide place in the road.  And Andale -- well, that wasn't a settlement either, now that she had cleaned out the cannibals there.  She leaned forward in the chair and bent closer to the microphone.

"As agreed, I'm ready to report on my mission to Caesar's Legion today."

 _"Did you make contact?_ " Sarah Lyons asked, crisp and authoritative.

"Yes, we made contact with Caesar's Legion.  We spoke with him and his tribunes and were guests at a banquet in our honor," Samantha responded.

 _"What did you think?"_ It was Gob this time, chiming in from Megaton.

Samantha leaned forward, speaking directly into the microphone.  "Crystal," she said, addressing the Raider queen, "the reports from your scouts were pretty much right on. Caesar's Legion consists of probably about 5,000 men -- about the same as the legions of the original Roman empire.  They appear to be decently trained and in good fighting condition, armed with light arms such as hunting rifles and carbines, throwing spears, and melee weaponry such as machetes."

 _"Heavy guns?"_ That was Sarah Lyons again. 

"I didn't see any.  Doesn't mean they don't have them," Samantha said.  "In addition to the soldiers, there are a large number of women and children.  Slaves," she added evenly.  "These weren't armed, and I don't think they'll fight for the legion."

 _"How are they supporting themselves?"_ This was Danvers.  _"That's an awful lot of people."_

"My best guess is 'not very well,'" Samantha replied.  "I got the history of Caesar's Legion from Caesar himself.  It sounds as if they've had a rough time in the past decade or so.  He confirmed that they were originally from the West, and lost some sort of fight with a group out there known as the NCR -- the New California Republic.  They've apparently been roving since, scavving and looking for a new place to settle down."

 _"What is their structure like?"_ Danvers again.  Samantha frowned.

"Similar to that of the old Roman legions.  Caesar's at the top; his second in command is a man named Vulpes Inculta, and other tribunes are Aurelius of Phoenix and Alerio.   If it’s like the Roman legions, it would be divided into cohorts of about 480 men, subdivided into centuries of 80 down to contubernia of 8.  I would expect there's a further division into three separate groups of troops: recruits, soldiers and veterans."  She paused.  "Again, they seemed kind of desperate.  As expected, Caesar offered us an alliance."

 _"What were his terms?_ "

"We give him land to settle, and he will protect our Wasteland.  He didn't say from what," she added, wryly.

Gob's raspy chortle crackled over the airwaves. _"Nice Wasteland you have here.  Sure would be a shame if something were to happen to it.”_

"Pretty much," Samantha said wryly.

 _"Whaddaya recommend, Sam?"_   That was Crystal, shrewd and to the point.  Samantha had long since given up trying to get her to stop calling her “Sam.”

Samantha glanced at Sean.  The ex-Enclave soldier nodded; she knew that the two of them shared their thoughts.  She leaned to the mic again.

"We discussed it and we all agree.  We would recommend  _against_ an alliance with Caesar's Legion."

 _"Your reasons?_ ' Sarah Lyons again.

"First, there’s no way we can possibly trust them. They've parked a huge army on our doorstep and are basically saying, 'Ally with us or else.'  I don't think that's a good sign of character. 

"Second, several of us felt the Legion's signs of strength were mostly for show; that they were in reality a lot weaker than they appeared to be.  I agree.  Also the commander, Caesar, seemed more than a little unbalanced.  But not least, because ... " She paused.

 _"Because?"_ prompted Gob.

"Because they're _evil_ ," she said in a rush of emotion.  “Worse than the Enclave, no offense, Sean.”  Sean leaned back and spread his hands, as if to say, _None taken._   "The entire Legion is built on slavery.  The way they treat women is – _appalling._    They’re thugs and scumbags.  I don’t want them in the Wasteland, and I’m not afraid of them."

She managed to get control of herself, clasping her hands together.  "I'm sorry if that was a little too harsh, but it’s how I feel.”

Sarah Lyons's voice filled the air with welcome reassurance.  _"No, I think we understand.  I know I do,_ " she said warmly.  _"I had come to the same conclusion based on preliminary reports."_

 _"Heh.  Me too, Lion,"_ Crystal said.  Samantha felt herself smile; Crystal and Sarah Lyon didn't often get along well. _"Seems like for once I agree wit' ya.  Goin' by what my scouts were tellin' me, I was gonna fight these fuckers if th' rest o' ya didn't. I don't want these guys nowhere near us."_

 _"You can count on us, Samantha,"_ came Gob's gravelly tones, and Winston joined in, _"If these guys are anything like the Enclave, they won't look too kindly on ghouls -- we stand with you too._ "

One by one, the others chimed in:  Danvers for Rivet City, Evan King from Arefu, Uncle Roe from Canterbury Commons, Sonora Cruz for her Regulators; Bigtown, Little Lamplight, the Lincoln Memorial, Vault 101, Oasis, the Republic of Rosie – all the settlements of the Wastes, united as one in their agreement with her and their opposition to the Legion.  Samantha’s heart swelled and her throat closed with emotion as she listened to their firm determination.

 _"We're all united behind you, Samantha.”_ That was Sarah Lyons again.  “ _We're not afraid.  We've beaten the Enclave, and we can defeat this Legion too.”_

Samantha couldn’t speak for a moment, trying to compose herself. At last, she found words.  “I have never been prouder,” she said quietly, “to be a member of the Wasteland than right now.”

“ _We’re proud of you too, Samantha,”_ Gob said, and hearing her old friend’s voice made her smile.

 _"S'what happens next, Sam?"_ Crystal asked.

"Caesar will send someone to us tomorrow to get our reply.  We're going to tell him no, of course," she said.  “After that, we'll start for Tenpenny Tower.  When we get there, we should hold a meeting of all the settlements to discuss what comes next.  It'll take us a couple days to get back  -- "

 _"We'll send out our delegations now,”_ said Danvers.  “ _They should be waiting for you when you arrive."_

 _"Don't worry, Sam,”_ added Crystal.  “ _We'll be there, ya kin count on Crystal's Raiders."_

The rest of the settlements chimed in with their support, filling Samantha with a new surge of emotion. "Thank you all," she replied.  “I appreciate your counsel and I'll see you all at Tenpenny Tower.  Samantha out." 

With a click, she cut the connection.  The sudden silence seemed to crackle in her ears.  She turned to Sean.

"What do you think, Sean?  Can we beat the Legion?"

"Like Sarah Lyons said: if we can defeat the Enclave, these Legionaries won't be a problem.”  A wolfish grin crossed Sean’s damaged features; for a moment he resembled Bright more than a little. "In fact, I look forward to it. I think that will be a fight to see."

“Heh – maybe so.”  Samantha leaned back in her chair.  "I've got to get some sleep.  And get out of this Power Armor.  I feel like I'm dead on my feet."

"You and me both. I don't go outside the walls of Tenpenny Tower as much as you do -- I forgot how tough this rig was to wear."  He hesitated a moment.  "Samantha ... “

"Yes?"

"What do you make of that young Legionary?"

"Darius?" she asked, frowning.  "Not much, why?"

"Do you think we can trust him?"

"I honestly don’t know," Samantha admitted.  "But I'll tell you this:  I'm prepared to give him a chance -- until he shows us he's not worthy of trust."  She gave Sean a warm smile.  "After all, I trusted you and look how that turned out."

Sean’s expression did not change.  "And what happens if the time comes when you conclude you _can't_ trust him?"

 _It's a fair question,_ part of her spoke up.  _What happens then?_

“I hope it won't come to that. But if it does, well, let’s just say, I know better than to blindly trust people.  After Tenpenny Tower – “ She broke off, shying away from a memory that was still painful for her.  Her jaw set.  “If it comes to that, I'll kill Darius myself."

Sean nodded, grim determination in his face.  “Good.”

Samantha got to her feet, pounding him on the shoulder so that his armor rang.  "Anyway, I'm beat, and I bet you are too,” she said.  “Come on, Sean.  Let's turn in."

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Author’s Note:** Sorry about the wait for this one; the long delay was a combination of a LOT of revising plus an extremely busy beta (thanks, **LadyKate1,** for your help even with your schedule!)  Yes, this chapter is mostly boring character stuff, I’m sorry. Thanks to anyone who is actually reading this; unfortunately “boring setup” is most of what this story is.  There should be one or maybe two more chapters after this in this part, and then I have to get to work on finishing Part II. 

* * *

 

“Now then, _iuvenis._   Y’go t’ tha ... t’tha S’mantha an’ you tell her ...  “

It was first light, and Arcade stood at the edge of the road leading out of the Legion encampment.  Caesar and his chieftains were there to see him off; Caesar leaned heavily on the arm of a young orderly, his good hand gripping the control unit for Arcade’s collar.  His one good eye fixed on Arcade. Though his face was ruined and scarred, there was no diminuition of the steely will that had enabled him to hold on to his power despite defeat, disaster, exile, and physical collapse.

“Tell her that Caesar expects t’ hear fr’m her.  That he wants her answer for the ... f’r the  Wasteland, whether they’ll ‘cept my off’r ‘r no. Y’hear?”

Arcade shoved his hands in his pockets.  “I’m surprised you trust me to go alone.  You count on my loyalty that much?” 

He didn’t need the chilly stares from Vulpes and the other tribunes to know that he was courting danger with such insolence; Caesar’s tolerance for him or for anyone, had grown a great deal shorter since his stroke.  He shifted his shoulders, feeling the scar tissue there pull. Yet Arcade found himself caring less and less about Caesar’s possible reactions these days – in fact, caring less and less about everything.  Life was so joyless, and he himself felt so numb that whatever Caesar might do to him just didn’t seem to matter anymore.  And yet this very apathy worried him a great deal.

However, Caesar was in a good humor today; he snorted, and shook his head.  “Loy’lty?  _Hah._ Know how ... how y’ feel, _iuvenis._   Y’r loyalty may not hold ya, but _this_ will.”  He tightened his grip around the control unit of Arcade’s collar, sending an entirely reflexive shiver along Arcade’s nerves.  “’N’ if that weren’t ‘nough .... “  He snorted another laugh, and gestured toward a young boy and girl who stood in front of him.  “Y’ know there’ll be those th’t suffer if y’ don’t.”

They watched him, silent and solemn: Claudia, as always, a little in front of and shielding her younger brother.  Daedrus’s eyes were pale in his thin, wasted face, and Claudia had the haunted look of someone who even at her age had seen too much.  Arcade felt that shiver again, but this time it filled him completely, seizing his heart with icy fingers.  He swallowed down his fear.

“Claudia. Daedrus.”  He leaned down to them.  “I won’t abandon you.”

They said nothing; but then, he reflected with some bitterness, he didn’t expect anything else.  Daedrus shrank further into the shadow of his older, taller sister; Claudia seemed to retreat in on herself.   Arcade gritted his teeth. 

“I _promise,”_ he insisted, holding them with his gaze, trying to _pry_ some reaction from them.

After a moment, Claudia replied, “All right.”  Her words were almost a whisper, so soft he had to strain his ears.  It was as much as she ever said to him.  He looked up at Caesar.

_Damn you,_ he thought tiredly.  _Damn you, damn the Legion, damn all of you._   Because those fragile orphans bound him to the Legion like chains of iron, and Caesar knew it. 

“I’ll be back.”  It sounded less like a pledge than a threat, and Arcade was well aware of it.  

Caesar again snorted that laugh. “Knew y’d say that.  J’s ... don’ f’rget.  I’m countin’ on ya ... ‘n I’m no’ th’ only one.  You know that.”

Arcade did.  After Lanius, he put nothing at all past Caesar.  He took a step back, then forced himself into a deep bow.

_“Vale,_ Caesar.” The words were acid with resentment.

“ _Vale, iuvenis,_ ” Caesar replied with that heavy edge of sarcasm.  “Go, ‘n you lemme know wh’ that S’mantha thinks.  ‘N be back b’fore next sunrise.“  He nudged the two children again, huddling together in his shadow.

As Arcade passed the boundaries of the _castrum,_ his collar was heavy on his neck.  Any joy he might have felt at getting out of the encampment was squelched by the knowledge of what he was leaving behind him: his two hostages to fate.  His family – or the closest thing to it.  However little they cared.

Ahead of him the sun was rising, along the road that would take him inexorably to that brilliant, shining star. _Samantha._

* * *

It was an hour and a half’s walk to the Brotherhood of Steel’s outpost; perhaps a bit more.  Despite the early hour, the day was already warm and the dust was choking.  Arcade could feel heat baking out of the ground, and the sun fell on his shoulders like hammer blows. After a short while, he stopped to rest, sinking down on a boulder in the shade of a dead tree.

He had meant just to stop for a moment to catch his breath, but one moment turned into five.  Then ten.  Then fifteen.  As he sat there, his limbs seemed to grow heavier and heavier.  A bone-deep sense of fatigue welled up inside him, fixing him to the earth.  The collar around his neck seemed to weigh him down.  He struggled to find the will to go on.

_It would be so much easier,_ he thought.  Just to remain here, and never move again.  For a moment, he pictured it: just leaning back, closing his eyes, and letting it all drift away.  The vision was appealing.  Even the memory of Samantha’s dynamic presence faded before it.

He shoved one hand into his pocket.  The cool feel of metal brushed his fingertips.

_Claudia and Daedrus,_ he told himself.  _Remember Claudia and Daedrus_.  Their faces haunted him.  They had been brought into the Legion perhaps five years ago, their parents killed by Legionaries -- or so he thought.  All he knew for certain was that they were alone in the world.  Except for him.  

It was Daedrus who had come to his attention first; Arcade had recognized clearly that he suffered from the wasting, one of the many postwar diseases caused by radiation damage to germ-line chromosomes.  Against his better judgement, he’d gone to Caesar, and implored the _imperator_ to let him treat the child; he knew he could do it, treatment would not be difficult, simply involving careful administration of regular doses of Buffout.  He’d been surprised when Caesar agreed -- though perhaps he shouldn’t have been. 

_Daedrus will die without you,_ he reminded himself.  _You **know**_ _that.  And if he goes, Claudia won’t be far behind … that is, if Caesar doesn’t kill them first._

The sun blazed overhead. An eddy of wind whipped dust into his eyes.  Arcade shoved his hand deeper into his pocket, and his fingers closed around the scalpel. 

He’d managed to procure it some time ago, palming it after a minor operation on one of Caesar’s most loyal chieftans.  He didn’t know why he’d held onto it – no, he did, all too well. He traced his thumb along the razor-sharp edge of the blade, and closed his eyes briefly.  The shock collar was cool against his throat. 

_That’s enough,_ he told himself sharply, willing himself to release it.  _Come on._ Yet his fingers did not obey him.

Samantha.  His mind turned again toward her: what he had seen of her, heard of her.  He no longer allowed himself to hope that anyone could really oppose Caesar; hope was a luxury he could not afford.  It simply hurt too much when it was crushed.  But there was something about this woman….

_That Three Dog spoke of her like a legend._ If she were capable of half the things Three Dog had said of her --

Abruptly he shook his head, hard.  _Stop it.  Put it out of your mind. Nobody is like that, and this Samantha person certainly isn’t.  You know better than that by now, or you should._   He drew a breath, concentrating on the weight of the collar around his neck. _That’s the truth. That’s the reality._

But what if it wasn’t?

Of course, there was that ghoul with her; Charon, she had called him.  Arcade had spotted at once what Charon was; he’d heard tales of these beings, though he had thought they were all dead.  The stories about the brutal training they endured to condition them to absolute obedience made his skin crawl – and the fact that this woman held one of them in her possession did not speak well for her.

_But still…._

He was so tired -- but he could wait.  Long enough for this, at least. 

His fingers loosened; the scalpel slipped out of his hand.  _Not yet.  There’s still a job to do._   With an almost herculean effort, he heaved himself up from the boulder.  He straightened his shoulders, and turned again into the sun.

* * *

It was getting on toward noon when the two-story, square building of the fire station that had become the Brotherhood of Steel’s forward outpost came into sight.  It was recognizable at once because of the Brotherhood symbol painted on its walls and the concrete barriers that filled the gap in the crumpled chain-link fence where the gate had once been.

  _And of course, the two soldiers in Powered Armor and carrying Gatling Lasers out front,_ Arcade thought grimly.

The soldiers turned in his direction as he approached. They were flanked, he saw, by those two strange robots that had accompanied Samantha, hovering behind them.  He wondered again what those bots were; they surely weren’t Sentry Bots, and he didn’t recognize anything that looked like armament on them, but if they _weren’t_ armed, he had no idea what they were even doing there.  The drones swiveled toward him along with the soldiers.

_“Halt,”_ one of the Power-Armored figures said, her voice crackling through the speakers in the helmet.  _“Who goes there?”_

Arcade stopped and held his hands out, showing that he had no weapons.  “Arcade Gannon.  I’m the messenger Caesar said he would send to your -- your -- Lady Samantha today, to receive the Wasteland’s answer to his offer of alliance.”  He had no idea if “Lady” was the proper title for Samantha -- in fact, he suspected it wasn’t -- but it felt wrong to just call her “Samantha.”

The two guards turned toward each other; he guessed they were communicating with someone inside via headset radio.  At length, the one who had spoken put up her Gatling Laser.

_“You are expected,”_ her words crackled.  _“Wait here and Samantha will be right out.”_

The guard broke the seal on her helmet and removed it, hanging it at her hip; she was quite young, with short-cut red hair and a spray of freckles across her nose.  She looked healthy, hearty and whole, and for a moment a wave of dejection swamped him.  She returned his stare with wary curiosity and then turned away, clearly dismissing him.

Approaching footsteps caught his attention; he looked up to see Samantha herself coming toward him, accompanied by the tall ghoul.  _Charon._   Arcade studied Charon closely, searching for -- what, he could not tell; Charon regarded him with an expression of cool appraisal in those faded eyes.

“You’re the emissary from Caesar?” Samantha asked.

Arcade spread his hands.  “Here I am.  Surprised?” he asked with a raised brow.

“I just thought -- “  She stopped for a moment, uncertain.  “No, that’s fine.  He sent you by yourself?”

“Our scouts reported the area around here is mostly safe, thanks to your friends Brotherhood of Steel.  There was no reason to send guards with me.  And he -- “  Arcade paused a moment.  “He has reasons to think I’ll return,” he said at last..

“Well -- by all means, come in.  Everyone’s in the conference room, and there’s coffee and something to eat.”

“After you,” he said with a nod.

The red-haired guard raised her weapon. “Shouldn’t we search him first?”

Samantha glanced back at Charon, and something passed between them.  “No need.  Caesar wouldn’t have sent him here just to sabotage the negotiations by shooting one of us.  I’ll trust him unless he gives us reason not to.”  She beckoned to Arcade.  “This way.”

Arcade followed her across the concrete parking lot surrounding the building, into the gloom of the station’s great open bay, to a door along the side wall.  The door opened to a corridor, mostly swept clean and clear of rubbish.

Arcade was surprised to see the corridor lit with the familiar glow of flickering electric lights; he couldn’t remember the last time he had seen indoor electricity, maybe not since they had left New Vegas.  “You have power?”

Samantha glanced over her shoulder.  “Yes, the Brotherhood was able to get the old generator in the basement working again not too long after they moved in.  They’re good at that kind of stuff.”

Arcade watched her surreptitiously as she forged ahead of him down the corridor, her Power Armor clanking.  After all, he thought ruefully, he’d never been this close to a legend before.  She was tall, no more than a hand shorter than he was -- and he was taller than average -- and even in the armor, a willowy grace was evident in her movements.  Underneath all that metal, he suspected, would be the lean body of a fighter.  Her features were bronzed by long sun exposure, and though he would have guessed she was maybe 35, there were fine lines at the corners of her eyes.  The deep tan of her face made her eyes look startlingly blue.  Those eyes were wide-spaced and round, open and frank, and in them Arcade thought he detected a strange air almost of innocence. It was not something he would have expected in a woman who had led the life she must have led. 

_Perhaps not innocence,_ he mused, _as much as ... Honesty?  Straight-forwardness?_ As if whatever she had seen or done had not changed her or corrupted her; there hung about her an air of essential idealism that he hadn’t seen for a long time. 

Her hair was a brilliant blonde, bleached the color of burnished gold by the Wasteland sun.  She had tied it back in a clumsy knot at the base of her neck in the style he recognized as “Wendy the Welder” -- not uncommon among Wasteland women.  Her cheekbones were high and strong, her nose straight and finely carved over a mouth that knew much of sternness but also how to smile.  She had something -- an aura, a charisma, _something_ \-- that caught his attention. It made him want to believe.

_And I know by now just how dangerous that is._   He took hold of his thoughts, reminding himself sternly that she couldn’t possibly be what he thought she was, _no one_ was -- reminding himself of what had happened the last time he let his wishes run wild. 

_And yet ..._

He suddenly wondered what she must think of him -- wondered, and felt terribly self-conscious.  He realized he wanted to make a good impression on her, wanted her to think of him as something other than Caesar’s slave.  The sensation surprised and unsettled him.

The hall ended in a lobby, relatively clean and in good repair; its broken windows were covered with sheets of plywood.  The air within felt pleasantly cool, and once again Arcade was impressed by the Brotherhood’s technological mastery; he hadn’t felt air conditioning since his time in the Enclave.

Samantha crossed the lobby to push open a set of double doors, revealing a room dominated by a long wooden table with a scratched veneer. The table was surrounded by a set of mismatched chairs clearly culled from various places throughout the Wastes: folding metal seats next to ancient upholstered chairs with the stuffing coming out of rips in their arms, and a few wooden office chairs.  A large coffee machine stood on a card table against the far wall, with a stack of chipped cups and a plate of sweetrolls; incredibly, Arcade realized, the smell of coffee was wafting through the air.

Gathered around the table were the people Samantha had brought along with her to Caesar’s encampment the day before.  Arcade repeated their names to himself: Star Paladin Cross; Butch DeLoria; the Raider Bright; and the scarred man – _Sean, was it?_   He remembered Sean from the day before – the man that had worn the Enclave Tesla armor – and a deep unease filled him.  Of course, there were many in the Wastes who wore scavenged suits of Power Armor; the fact that Sean had been wearing Enclave armor meant nothing – but still, Arcade felt there was something _familiar_ about the scarred man that worried him.

“Hi, everyone,” Samantha said without ceremony, nodding to her friends as they rose from their seats.  “This is Arcade Gannon, he’s the messenger from Caesar come to hear our answer today.  Arcade, you’ve met my companions.”

 As they all murmured greetings, Arcade did his best to reply, but suddenly felt tremendously awkward and out of place.  The collar around his neck seemed heavy, as if it were cutting into his throat; for a nightmarish second he thought he was suffocating.  _It’s been so long_ _since I’ve interacted with anyone outside the Legion ...._   A feeling of paranoia descended on him and he wanted to drop through the floor.  He was very conscious of being the center of everyone’s attention.

_Come on, Gannon.  Get a grip on yourself._   With an effort, Arcade pushed the feeling of awkwardness away.  He went down the line, greeting Samantha’s entourage each in turn.  He was startled and a little taken aback to find that they all held out their hands for him to shake.  He had almost forgotten what it was like: to grip someone’s hand as an equal.  A strange, hot, prickly sensation filled him.  If these were Samantha’s chieftains -- _tribunes_ \-- they were quite different than Caesar’s.

He reached for Sean’s hand – and stopped; Sean did not respond, but stared hard at Arcade instead, with a look Arcade didn't quite know how to interpret.

 “Excuse me?” Arcade drew back, uncertain, wondering if he had done something incorrectly and what that might be.   The sense of unease filling him deepened.  Sean said nothing, but those pale blue eyes behind that mask of cuts turned hard as ice.

A faint frown knotted Samantha’s forehead.  “Hey Sean, is something wrong?” she asked.  “I told you Caesar was going to be sending an emissary today -- “

Sean held up one hand.  “Yeah.  Yeah, something is wrong.  I thought I recognized it when I first saw him back at the encampment.  Now, this close?  I’d bet my life on it.”

“Bet your life on what?” Samantha asked, her frown deepening.

“Samantha,” Sean said, turning toward her. “This man is Enclave.”

_Enclave._  

Shivers passed down Arcade’s spine, as if the word carried an electric charge.  He had been hiding the secret for so long, he had almost forgotten it himself; now, to hear Sean say it straight out like this --   The breath rushed from his body and he felt like he had been kicked in the gut. 

Samantha’s brows drew down sharply.  “What?! How do you know this?  Sean, are you _sure?_ ”

Sean’s scarred face contorted.  “Trust me, I know.  I grew up in the Enclave too, I can tell. You can’t take that out of someone.”

_Dammit._ Arcade cursed silently, realizing now he had known all along and just hadn’t admitted it.  _His accent, his armor, his body language – even the way he stands – why didn’t I realize earlier?_

And what could he have done if he had?

_“The Enclave._ ”   Samantha’s growl snapped him back to himself as the warmth drained from her face and her eyes turned to ice.  The others in the room were staring at him with a range of emotions from bright interest to open hatred. Arcade never saw where Samantha drew the pistol from; all he knew was that she was pointing it directly at him.

The safety clicked off.  Arcade’s mind groped for something to say, to do, but came up with nothing. 

_This is it, then.  This is how it ends._ His overwhelming emotion was a terrible regret; that after so long, after finding one person – _one_ \-- who might just possibly have been able to stand against Caesar, the shadow of the Enclave should fall between them. Wearily, he spread his empty hands.

“Well, get it over with; I certainly can’t stop you.”  He raised one brow.  “But I must warn you, Caesar won’t be pleased.” 

Samantha’s icy face revealed nothing.  Arcade watched her, careful to keep his eyes open and fixed on hers; he wanted to see his end.  He waited, counting the seconds --

Charon reached out and closed his hand around the barrel of her gun, pushing it aside.  “Mistress,” he said calmly, “do not.”

_What?_ A flare of curiosity went through him.  From what Arcade had heard, Charon’s kind would _never_ oppose their employers -- _could_ never oppose them.  He cursed that he should see this only now, too late --

_Or is it?_   For even as Samantha turned on Charon, she _lowered the gun._

“Charon, what the hell are you _doing?”_

The ghoul — _Charon_ \-- did not so much as flicker an eyelid.  “Mistress … you have told me that if ever you were to do something that I thought dishonorable, I should make this known at once.  And so I do now.  Do not harm this man, Mistress.”

“ _But Charon, the Enclave --_ “  Her voice shook with fury.

“The Enclave is long gone, Mistress, and this man is a slave.  Killing him now for the crimes of others would be nothing short of murder.  Such an act would not be worthy of you, and one who would do such a thing would not be worthy of my respect.  And that is how I know, my mistress, that _you_ could never do this.”

Samantha cast her eyes down briefly, then gave a heavy sigh.  “God _damn it._ ”   It clearly cost her, but she reholstered her weapon.  She glared at the ghoul.  “Charon,” she said, “stop being right all the time.”

The ghoul regarded her.  “As you command, Mistress.”  There was a slight tightening around his eyes that might have passed for a smile.

Samantha  turned toward him, but Arcade missed what she said next; he was suddenly blindsided by a sick stab of envy and yearning. 

_If I had tried something like that with Caesar …._

“Enough o’ this jawin already, “ put in that Raider woman Bright.  “Are we gonna get down to business or what?  I didn’t come here t’ _almost_ witness a fight.”  She grinned viciously, then nudged the still-glaring Sean with her foot. “An’ you, Sean.  Give ‘im a break.  Poor guy ain’t no Enclave soldier now, anyway.  He’s a fuckin’ slave.”  She drew her combat knife and gestured offhandedly toward Arcade with a sort of brutal cheerfulness. “Fuckin’ slaves is all yer Legion _is_.” 

Despite his discomfiture, something distant prickled within him.  Arcade’es back stiffened as he turned toward the Raider woman.  “They’re not _my_ Legion.”

“Sure they are.  Yer their slave, ain’tcha?  Now we Raiders, we don’t _do_ slavery,” she said with some pride.  “Raiders is _free._   That’s the whole point o’ _bein_ a Raider: nobody – _nobody_ – gets to tell a Raider what to do, not _never._   Not sure what kind ‘o’ a dumbass people _would_ do slavery.”

Arcade felt the words drilling into his chest.  He was startled that Samantha seemed to see it; she held up one hand.  “Bright, stop,” she said almost absently.  While she had lowered her weapon, she still hadn’t taken her eyes off Arcade.  That intense stare made him shiver.  Speaking directly to him, she said, “But she’s right.  We should get started.  With you.”

She nodded toward a chair and Arcade sat, careful to move slowly and deliberately. He watched her, not sure what was going to happen.  His eyes kept being drawn to Sean’s scarred face.  _How did **he** end up in the Enclave?  What is he doing here?  _Samantha evidently knew about his Enclave background, so why did she permit him ... ?

His eyes swept around the room.  The Brotherhood Paladin simply looked on, stone-faced.  Butch and Bright were both more or less nonchalant; and Charon seemed as impassive as ever.   But Samantha watched him with an edge of hostility that made Arcade want to cringe. 

“Looks like we got off on the wrong foot,” he offered with a wry grin, trying to make light of the situation.  “I don’t bite, I promise.”

Samantha folded her arms.  “That remains to be seen.  You need to understand: here in the Wasteland we don’t have a lot of love for the Enclave – “

“Most people don’t,” Arcade murmured dryly.

“Whatever your history with them is, I need to know more about it before we can trust you.”

Her eyes bored into him.  Arcade sighed.  “My history with the Enclave ... “ He tilted his head back, trying to think what to tell her, what she would care about, how and why. “Well, it’s a very long story -- “

“We’ve got time,” Samantha pressed.

“All righty then.  Well, to make a long story very very short, I was born very far west of here, out on what was once the West Coast.  My father was ... a high-ranking Enclave officer who died when I was ... very young.”  It felt strange, and somehow unnatural, to be talking about all of this. He raised an eyebrow, hoping to defuse some of the suspicion in Samantha’s face.  “I should tell you, that no one outside this room knows anything about my background.”

“Then Caesar doesn’t know?” Samantha asked.

_A very astute question_.  He settled for a nod. “Correct.  And I’d appreciate if he didn’t find out.”

Samantha studied him for a long moment.  He kept his eyes on her, wanting to see how she – how _she_ , of all of them – would react to what he had said.  The silence stretched out as he watched thoughts and emotions flickering behind her eyes.  When she finally gave a nod, something in his chest unknotted.

“All right, that’s good enough,” she said. “For now, at least.”

Arcade exhaled, only then realizing he had been holding his breath. 

“Not for me.” Sean was still glaring at him hard.  “Samantha, how do we know -- “

“Sean. Stop.”

Sean fell silent, clearly not happy about it.

“What do you think would happen if Caesar did find out?”  This was Star Paladin Cross.  Arcade had to ponder that one for a moment.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, “but honestly, I’d rather not put it to the test.”  One of his hands rose of its own accord to brush against his collar absently; he realized what he was doing and snatched it away as if burned.  Samantha caught the movement and Arcade winced inwardly.  There was more understanding in her eyes than he cared to see.  Again, he wondered wearily why Caesar had thought to send him on this errand  – unless it was just another way to torment him.

_But then again, who else **would** he send? _ The sociopathic Alerio?  Vulpes, the icy sadist? Aurelius of Phoenix, who had the intelligence of a cement block?  No, not one among Caesar’s chieftains and tribunes would have made as good an envoy as Arcade, his slave physician -- and he would not dwell on what that said about Caesar’s judgement.

Samantha was still studying him.  He sensed that she was about to ask him something else, but when she spoke, the question took him aback.  “Last night.  That whole ‘self-criticism’ rigamarole.  What was that about?”

Arcade shifted uncomfortably.  He had almost forgotten that moment – and it wasn’t something he wanted her to remember.  “I said something Caesar didn’t like,” he offered with a rueful shrug.  “I’d said worse to him before -- and probably will again -- so I’m not sure why he felt the need to punish me for it this time.  Or maybe that was the point.” He gave a mirthless laugh.

 “What was the point?” she pressed.

“That punishment is arbitrary.  That there’s no way to know what, at any time, is within the rules.”  He heaved a sigh.“He wasn’t always like this.  I mean, he was always a tyrant, don’t get me wrong, but he used to least _try_ to keep up the image of a consistent and fair ruler -- for a given definition of ‘fair,’ anyway.  The last several years though -- I don’t know if it was the stroke that did it, or failing in his attempt to invade the NCR homeland, or both, but ….  He’s gotten worse.  A lot worse.  Sometimes it seems like he goes further downhill every day.”  His shoulders tightened.  “Anyway, this wasn’t ... _so_ bad.” 

It felt good, saying that about Caesar, he realized.  It felt good to talk honestly about Caesar to _someone,_ even if it was this strange woman Samantha whom he’d probably never see again.  He’d spent so long without anyone to confide his frustrations to that the brief experience was almost heady – and the understanding he saw in Samantha’s eyes, even more so.  He sensed that something had changed between them: that she saw him as more human perhaps, less the Enclave officer or the appendage of a petty, deluded tyrant. 

She offered a half-smile, and he smiled back.  For a moment, it seemed to be just the two of them in the room, and he felt a dim stirring of -- something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Then the weight of the collar pressed down on him.  They weren’t friends, and he wasn’t here to chat: he had come as a representative of a vile foreign power.  He sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets, clasping the scalpel.

Samantha looked thoughtful.  “You said he wasn’t always this bad?”

“No, I guess not,” Arcade said.  “Though it was before my time.  By the time I got to him he was already ... well, let’s just say heading downhill, though it wasn’t till a few years ago that he really went over the edge.  I suspect some of his chieftains would agree, not that they’d say it out loud.”

“That may explain it then,” Samantha mused.

“Explain what?”

“Based on what little I know of history, I’ve always wondered why anyone would follow a dictator like Caesar in the first place.  Caesar seems like the type of person who’d be as dangerous to his allies as to whomever he thinks are his enemies.  Why bother following someone who’s just going to kill you anyway if he’s having a bad day?”

_She doesn’t know the half of it._ Arcade thought of Lanius and the knotted scar tissue on his back seemed to itch and burn.  He was grateful that Samantha hadn’t seen that -- and likely never would.

Her eyes were still on him; he felt a flash of guilt, as if she were calling him personally to answer for Caesar’s behavior.  He shifted uncomfortably.

“Well … for a megalomaniacal narcissist, he’s not really _so_ bad,” Arcade offered with a weak attempt at humor.   “I’ve been with him for a long time -- _far_ too long -- and he’s -- he’s got some good ideas, it’s just that -- “

He trailed off under Samantha’s cool appraisal.  “You are arguing something you don’t believe,” she said flatly.  “You’re not even fooling yourself, so what makes you think you can fool me?”

_She’s right._   Suddenly he felt indescribably filthy -- actually _defiled_.  _How have I come to this?_ he wondered dully. 

She seemed to see it and her gaze softened, though the pity that followed almost made him feel worse. “Would you like some coffee?” she asked, gesturing toward the ancient pre-war coffee machine in the corner.

Arcade sighed, trying to refocus.   He shook his head.  “No, let’s just get this over with.  You know why I’m here.  I’ve come for the Wasteland’s answer.  What do you say?  Will you accept Caesar’s offer of alliance?”

She studied him.  “I think you already know.”

“Yes -- but for the record.”

“For the record, then.”  She exchanged looks with her entourage. They nodded and she turned to him again.  She put her hands on her hips. 

“Go back and tell your master,” she said, and he could hear that the phrasing was deliberate, “that his offer was most kind, most generous, but our answer is, No.”

The word fell like a hammer blow.  She paused for a moment, letting it hang there.  Arcade had expected it, but still flinched at the finality in her voice.   “We’ve heard of his reputation – and I know what I saw with my own eyes,” she added grimly.  He could see the memory of Caesar’s “tryouts” the night before flickering across her face.  “No one in the Wasteland has any interest in an alliance with someone like him.  We will resist him to our dying breaths.  Because it is better to die on one’s feet than to live on one’s knees … or worse.” 

Arcade was silent.  The contrast he sensed between himself and her shamed him too much; he could not, physically could not bring himself to stand before her and plead for a cause he not only did not believe in but loathed with every fiber of his being.

She got to her feet.  That seemed to be the signal, for everyone else in the room rose as well. “I have to go,” she said.  “I promised the Brotherhood I would take care of a radscorpion nest near here.   Feel free to stay here as long as you like.  If you would like to have something to eat before you start back, the Brotherhood has a good kitchen, with pre-war food and some of our own more recent produce.  Just let me know when you’re heading out.”  She gestured to the rest of her entourage. “I think we all have tasks to do, so we should probably be about our business.”

With an air of dismissal she left the conference room.  Arcade could do nothing but stand there, dumbly, as everyone else filed out; Sean watching him suspiciously all the way to the end.  He almost didn’t notice Charon, the big red ghoul remaining behind until the room was almost empty.   But then he became aware of the man’s presence.

Charon’s arms were folded; those faded, implacable eyes were resting on him.  There was an expectant air about him; Arcade wondered if the ghoul had seen his curiosity earlier.  _He’s waiting,_ Arcade realized suddenly.

_But for what?_

The tension stretched out.  Their eyes met and suddenly, somehow Arcade found himself speaking. 

“You – “ Charon tilted his head.  Arcade stopped and cleared his throat.  “I’ve -- I’ve heard of you.  Or -- those like you, at least.”

The ghoul gave him a flat stare.  His lantern jaw set.  “Have you.”

“Yeah.” Arcade wet his lips. “I don’t – I -- “  Suddenly, a rush of heat filled his cheeks.  Arcade had thought he was well past truly feeling any sort of shame at his predicament; long useage had made him dully resigned to what he had once found almost unbearable.  Yet somehow, being around this Samantha -- this woman who seemed the closest thing to a hero he had ever met -- brought it all back: the thousand, myriad indignities that he was made to endure on a daily basis.

He looked away, drawing an unsteady breath.  “I’ve heard of … how it is with your kind.”  The ghoul said nothing.  “The -- the lengths to which you have to obey your employer, and ... How do you stand it -- the humiliation? How do you survive being her…her slave?”

“I am not a slave,” Charon corrected him in that gravelly, grating voice.  “I am my mistress’s _employee._   The contract grants my mistress the right to my _services,_ not myself.”  _That is a distinction without a difference,_ Arcade might have said.  He held his peace, stealing a glance at the taller ghoul -- while Arcade was taller than most, Charon towered even over him.  Charon was regarding him coolly, as if considering the correct manner in which to reply; at last, he crossed his arms over his chest.  When he spoke, there was an odd timbre in that harsh voice.  _Sympathy?_

“Service is not, in itself, degrading,” he said quietly.  “Not unless you choose to see it thus.  And as for humiliation -- “  He paused.  “That is a thing done by two; it requires a willing victim.  No one may take from you that which you do not choose to give them.”

The heat in Arcade’s face deepened at those words.  _Little does he know._ Scores of memories he would much rather forget pressed their way into his consciousness.  “But -- but what if -- “

_“No._ ”  That grating voice was as uncompromising as granite.  “What your master has you do, or what he does to you -- these things only define _him._   They do not touch the core of who you are.  Not unless you choose to allow it.  There is choice,” he told Arcade, almost gently.  “Even in servitude, there is choice.  Even if it is no more than to choose to accept that which you must endure.  Understand this, and you understand all.”

“How very Stoic of you,” Arcade said bitterly. The trace of sympathy in Charon’s voice struck him so hard it almost made him reel; it had been so long since he had experienced it from anyone that he had no defenses against it.  His face felt as if it was flaming.  A tremendous heat filled his chest, and his eyes burned.  He rubbed at them, observing distantly that his hand was shaking.  _I will bet caps to denarii that this ghoul does not know the meaning of the word Stoic,_ he thought dully.  Somehow, that helped a little; he was able to draw a breath, then another one, and calm himself a bit.

Charon raised his chin.  “Perhaps,” was all he said.

 “But what if -- “  He swallowed, trying to control his voice.  “What if the -- the person you s-serve -- “ he stumbled over the word “ -- is someone you hate?  What if -- what if he is an evil man who does evil things?  What if -- “  The words vibrated lornly; this was the crux.  He literally could not express in words his hatred for Caesar -- how every fiber of his being revolted at having to serve and obey this man.  _If it were just the indignities, I could stand it perhaps, but watching him do the things he does --_   He rubbed his eyes again and looked desperately back at Charon, hoping for … what, he did not know.

Charon cast his milky, deceptively mild eyes down, obviously considering.  When at last he replied, each word glinted, as distinct and clear as faceted crystal.  “Then,” he said, “you watch.  And you wait.”

“Wait?” Arcade demanded. “For _what?_ ”

“A chance,” Charon replied.

Arcade considered the words.  His hand tightened on the scalpel in his pocket and suddenly a rush of frustration and anger filled him. “I’ve _been_ waiting,” he said with some anger.  “Are you saying -- “

Charon’s face was impassive, yet somehow Arcade received the impression that there was a serious disconnect there -- that he’d completely missed the point of what the ghoul had said.  Charon studied him, and then tilted his head.

“The chance for which you wait is not for _you._ ”

“I don’t understand.”

“Wait.”  That word filled the world.  “No man or woman may know the future.  All things are contained in time.  _Wait.”_

“For what?”

“Talk to Samantha,” was the big ghoul’s only reply.  “Ask her about Ahzrukhal.”  With that Parthian shot, the ghoul turned and left the room.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Author’s note:** Long and boring chapter this time.  Sorry to any readers for making them wait so long for so little.    I think one more shorter chapter and that will be it for this part.  Then I can start working on finishing Part II.  As I said before, Part I is mostly set-up so not very interesting.  Hopefully Part II whenever I get it finished (which will be who knows when) should be more interesting!

* * *

 

 _Talk to Samantha.  Ask her about Ahzrukhal._   Arcade pondered the words as he looked around the empty conference room, in the wake of Charon’s exit.  He turned the name Ahzrukhal over in his head, but it meant nothing to him; he suspected whoever had carried the name had made it up, perhaps to sound more intimidating.

He had a little time.  Caesar held Claudia and Daedrus, so he had to return at some point -- even if they did not care for him, even if they did not care whether or not he ever returned -- but it was not too long a walk back. If Caesar asked, he could always say that he had sought out Samantha again to make one last attempt to change her mind.  And honestly -- having had this small taste of what it was like to be free again, he couldn’t bear to return so soon.

He emerged from the conference room and took a left -- only to jerk back as he almost collided with a young man coming around the corner, broom in hand.

“I’m sorry, “ Arcade began.  “I didn’t see you there -- “

Then he stopped.  The youth was staring at him closely.  After a moment, much to his shock, Arcade recognized him.  “ _You_.  You were the hopeful that the Raider girl -- that Bright -- defeated yesterday in the ring!”

The youth’s face reddened and his heavy brows drew down into a sullen scowl. “And I know you.  You’re Caesar’s slave-doctor.”  He’d meant it to be an insult, and Arcade had to admit, it stung.

“What’s your name, recruit?”

He drew himself up.  “I don’t take orders from slaves.”

Arcade ran his eyes over the young man, letting his gaze linger on the broom, and raised one brow.  “But you do take orders from Profligates, it seems,” he said, deliberately using the Legion’s derogatory term for outsiders.

The youth’s scowl deepened and he made as if to hit Arcade, then stopped.  He bowed his head and clenched his fists, forcing himself to regain control.  Arcade suddenly felt ashamed of himself -- because of his own actions this time.  _He’s had everything ripped away from him – everything he spent years working for, the foundation of his very identity; he’s lashing out in pain and humiliation, and this is how you respond?_

But then came an answering surge of resentment.  _Hell yeah, this is how I respond.  Nobody cares about **my** feelings, do they?  Why should I have to be kinder to anyone else than they are to me?  _He very carefully wrapped that sentiment up and set it by.

The young man said through angry teeth, “My mistress -- Samantha -- has ordered me to _assist_ the -- the Brotherhood of Steel.  The Brotherhood quartermaster gave me these duties.  It is ... not dishonorable work if it is honorably performed.”  He said the words as though he was desperately trying to believe them.

Arcade sighed.  “No.  It’s _not_ dishonorable work,” he said.  He felt like telling the young man that the sort of work he’d aspired to do as a Legionary would be far _more_ dishonorable than sweeping a floor or two, but he did not. “But your ... your mistress ... is Samantha, not Bright the Raider girl?”

“Bright follows her,” the young man said, “so I follow her as well.  Bright -- must have given me to her.”  The anger left his face now, and was followed by something else, as if he were feeling an emotion he did not understand.  “I have sworn to obey her, as I would have sworn to obey Caesar.  It is my only chance for honor now.” He swallowed hard, and Arcade could see the despair lurking in the kid’s eyes. 

“What do you think of her?” Arcade asked, curious to see what he would say.

“What do I ... “  He looked confused. “Well, of course it is not my place to judge her,” he said uneasily.  “Any more than I would have judged Caesar.”

“But you must think something.  What do you think of her?” Arcade pressed.

“She is ... “  He hesitated again.  “I had not expected to find a ... a woman in charge here.  But she is.  She is the leader of her group, just as Caesar is for the Legion.  She is ... she is soft,” he said slowly.  “She accepts disrespect and back talk from her followers.  Caesar never would have.  Yet they follow her anyway.  I don’t understand that,” he said, looking at Arcade in confusion.  “She is treating me with ... with honor.  I don’t know why she should do so.  I -- “  Here he looked so worried that Arcade put out his hand.

“I think you have no reason to fear,” he said gently.  “I’ve seen people like Samantha before.  She comes from a different kind of people than the Legion.  In her culture, it is not done to treat the vanquished cruelly.”

The youth looked at Arcade closely, desperately wanting to believe.  “Are you sure?” he asked.  “You know of these people?”

“You have my word,” he said, wanting to assuage the young man’s fears -- to ease his own heart, though he scarcely admitted it to himself, by reminding himself there were places where people treated each other kindly and with dignity.  “Behave honorably, and Samantha will treat you well.”

A deep tension eased in the kid’s face.  “If you -- If you lie to me, slave -- “  He stopped as if in confusion -- perhaps, Arcade mused, remembering that he was now a slave himself -- and bit his lip.

“Trust me,” Arcade said.  “And you can trust Samantha, too.”  Before the youth could reply, he took his leave, wishing bitterly that someone could say that to him.

* * *

 

The guards at the gate told him where to find Samantha: a cliff a little way up the road, where the land dropped off and sloped downward abruptly.  Stepping outside the blocky fire station, Arcade took a moment to get used to the heat and the dust, and then started up the road.

He heard her before he saw her: distant concussive booms thudded against his eardrums and sent subtle vibrations running up his legs from the ground.  Following the explosions and tremors, he made his way up the cracked and broken road, and there she was: a lone figure in Power Armor standing at the edge of a cliff, gazing off into the distance with half-mesh tube on her shoulder, rendered into a silhouette by the sun.

She appeared to take no notice of him at first, too intent on the distant targets she was shooting.  He could see faint clouds of smoke -- _mushroom clouds?_ \-- rising in the distance.

“Samantha -- “ he ventured after a moment.  She didn’t seem to hear him.  Absently he raised one hand to rub the shining circle of steel around his neck, then reached out and rapped on her Power Armor with his knuckles to get her attention.

 _Mistake -- !_   Moving with combat reflexes, she spun around and aimed her Fat Man directly at him.  He could see she was a breath from pulling the trigger.

Chills ran down his spine and the collar around his neck itched unbearably; but he dared not move.  “If you fire that thing at me, you’ll blow yourself up too,” he told her evenly.

Samantha stared at him for a long moment as if trying to place him.  At last she pounded her chest with her free hand; the Powered Armor rang like a bell. “The T-51b Winterized Armor can withstand a direct Mini-Nuke strike.  Ask me how I know.”  But she swung the weapon down from her shoulder, resting it on one end and leaning on it.   “Don’t do that again.  You scared the _crap_ out of me.”

“What are you shooting?” he asked her.

She jerked her head at the ruins below.  “Albino Radscorpions.  There’s a nest of them in the town down there.  I knock the population down every so often, but they always come back.  Ever fought Albino Radscorpions?”

Arcade shook his head.  “There aren’t any back where I’m from, and I, ah--“  He spread his hands.  “I don’t do much fighting these days.”

 “They’re worse than regular Radscorpions.  Bigger, stronger, tougher, faster.  They’re even worse than Deathclaws.  Most merchants and caravan guards can’t handle them.  I do what I can.”   She thumped the half-mesh tube with one hand.

Arcade nodded.  They studied each other, taking each other’s measure.  Far below them, the wind droned in the ruins.

At last, Samantha said, “Okay, you came out here, so I assume you want something.”  Her eyes were frank and level.

“Well … ” Arcade shrugged ruefully.  “I suppose if I asked you to reconsider Caesar’s offer -- “

“The answer would be the same as before.  And I suspect you’re smart enough to know that.”

“Worth a shot, at least.”  He shrugged again.  That direct gaze was uncomfortably piercing; he felt the stirring of painful memories.  _The last person I knew who had a stare like that ...._   These eyes were darker blue, but the intensity was the same ... the feeling of being under a powerful spotlight was the same.

Samantha nodded.  “So then, why are you _really_ out here?”

“Good question.”  Arcade shoved his hands in his pockets, averting his eyes for some relief from that direct stare.  “I was, ah, speaking to Charon,” he ventured at last.

Her brows contracted slightly in puzzlement.  “And?”

“Yeah.  Ah, he told me to ask about .... ”  Arcade hesitated, unsure of the ground on which he was treading.  “He told me to ask you about someone named Ahzrukhal?”

“ _Ahzrukhal?_ ”  She leaned her Fat Man against a nearby boulder, as unguarded surprise spread across her features.  “How did that even come up?”

“Long story,” he parried.   “If -- if it’s something painful or you don’t want to talk about it -- “

She shrugged.  “It’s not my story, it’s Charon’s.  I’m just surprised that he’d even mention it to you -- it was a long time ago.”

“What was it?” he asked, curious, wondering if what she was about to tell him would shed some light on the origins of the mysterious ghoul. 

“Well -- “  She sighed. 

“If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s all right.”

She smiled, shrugged.  “No, it’s fine.  I don’t mind.  Okay, so let’s see ...

“Everyone knows I grew up in Vault 101.  The Vault’s even open to the public now, there’s nothing to hide.  Anyway, when I first got out of the Vault, I was …. “  She fell silent, as if thinking back through layers of history to a time so far removed from who and what she was now that she could scarcely remember it.

“I was not in a good place,” she said.  “Everything was completely strange to me.  Not only that but everything I knew, everything I’d taken for granted, had been thrown into total confusion.  I mean -- “ She gestured helplessly.  “Vault-Tec intended that Vault 101 would never be opened, and that was what we were always taught: ‘ _In Vault 101, no one ever enters, and no one ever leaves_.’  We were told that the world outside was still an uninhabitable wasteland, and that it would stay that way forever.  I believed I’d been born in the Vault, and my parents had, and so on.  And then I found none -- _none_ \-- of that was true.  There was a whole world out there that -- well, no, it wasn’t _thriving,_ but it was enduring and had been doing so probably since the Great War.  That -- well, that really did a number on my head,” she said with a grim laugh.

Arcade simply nodded; having himself discovered that certain things he had thought were true were not true at all, he knew how disorienting it was.  And as catastrophic as that discovery had been for him personally, it had still been less of an upheaval than what Samantha was describing.

“Everything was strange and terrifying,” she said, shaking her head. “I didn’t know anything about the world outside – I didn’t even know what a ghoul was, if you can believe that.  Gob -- well, a guy I met in Megaton -- had to explain it to me.  I’d never seen a Super-Mutant, a Mirelurk, or -- god forbid -- a Deathclaw.  At least I knew how to shoot; my dad started teaching me with a BB gun on my tenth birthday.  Probably in case I had to leave the Vault someday.” she mused.  “But really, I was just doing my best to hang on: stumbling through from day to day, always wondering if this day or the next would be my last. 

“Somehow I latched onto the idea that this was all my dad’s fault – that he had betrayed me. I was _obsessed_ with the thought of tracking him down and screaming at him until I got some kind of explanation.  That was a _goal,_ but it wasn’t _enough_ , if that makes sense. It couldn’t help me survive, let alone put my world back together.  For a while, chems sure seemed like they could – and I had the perfect justification for using them too.  Everything around me was so dangerous I _needed_ them to survive – at least, that’s what I told myself.”

Arcade wondered what any of this had to do with Charon and Ahzrukhal; it was on the tip of his tongue to ask, but he figured she was coming to that.  Something told him this was a story Samantha needed to tell – and perhaps one that not many had heard.

Samantha seemed to see his confusion; she gave a wry grin.  “I guess the story of Charon and Ahzrukhal is so bound up with my early days in the Vault that it’s hard for me to separate them.  But it was after I had been out of the Vault for a few months, on the trail of my dad –I don’t remember quite how, but I found myself on what had used to be the Mall.”

Arcade raised his eyebrows. “That must have been a sight.”

“You know of it?”

“I’ve seen pictures,” he said.

“So have I. Let’s just say it … looks a lot different now than in the pre-war holotapes.”  A shadow fell over her face.  “I ended up taking shelter for a while in the Museum of History.  The entire place had been taken over by Ghouls.  They established a city called Underworld there.  It’s a good place; protected from the violence outside, and if you don’t bother the ghouls, they won’t bother you.

“Ahzrukhal was the owner of a bar called the 9th Circle there, and Charon worked for him as a bouncer.  I tried to talk to Charon when I first met him, just being friendly, but all he would say -- in that gruff voice of his,” she said, smiling fondly, “was ‘Talk to Ahzrukhal.’

 “I asked Ahzrukhal what was up with Charon. He told me a little bit about him -- that Charon had been raised around a ‘very unusual’ group of people, and that he believed he _had_ to obey the holder of his contract without question, no matter what was asked.  That’s about it.  At the time, I really needed someone to help carry stuff, so on a whim really, I asked Ahzrukhal if he would be willing to sell Charon’s contract.”

Something twisted deep inside Arcade; the collar suddenly seemed heavy around his neck.  “And you didn’t have a problem with that?”

Samantha stopped. Her eyes turned inward, as if searching her memory. At last she sighed.  “I was ... very much in a different place then.  I felt like ... Like I was just barely managing to keep my head above water, like I was always one fraction of a second away from death.  And I probably was,” she said with a grim laugh.  “I didn’t think very far ahead; deep down, I didn’t believe I’d live to see my next birthday, let alone find my dad.  It was all I could do to stay alive just one minute more.”  Arcade listened silently.  It all sounded so familiar; it was as if Samantha could answer the questions and soothe the hurts he’d been carrying for seventeen years – explain the betrayal that still plagued him. “I guess – I guess I just wasn’t thinking about Charon’s feelings at the time. I felt like I was stretched to the limit – like I desperately needed help, and couldn’t afford to care about how I got it.

“Would I have done it that way now?  I don’t know,” she said thoughtfully. “I would like to say no, not without asking Charon -- but the thing is, if I _had_ asked him, he wouldn’t even have said yes or no back then, just ‘Talk to Ahzrukhal.’ And in the end, getting him away from Ahzrukhal turned out to be for the best after all.  So, perhaps even though I didn’t do it the ‘right’ _way_ , it was still the right thing to do.”  She sighed. “That’s the Wasteland for you.”

 _That’s life for you,_ Arcade thought.  He understood Samantha’s logic, but still ... a thin shred of bitterness brushed him.  He’d wanted her to be better than that.  One hand rose again absently to stroke his collar.

 “Anyway, Ahzrukhal said I could buy Charon’s contract for 1000 caps which I could just barely afford.  So I went over to Charon to tell him that he would be following me now.  Charon said ... “

Her eyes went distant, as if she were retrieving an ancient thread of memory.  “Charon said, ‘That is good to hear.  There is one thing I have to take care of first.’  He went over to Ahzrukhal, and when Ahzrukhal asked him if he had come to say goodbye, Charon -- pulled his shotgun and shot him dead.”

Arcade was not exactly surprised – perhaps he had expected something like this – but it was still a shock to hear Samantha say it so bluntly.

 “Well, as you can imagine I wanted to know what the _fuck_ that was about.  Charon said, ‘Ahzrukhal was an evil bastard.  So long as he held my contract, I was honor bound to do as he commanded.  But now you are my employer, which freed me to rid the world of that disgusting rat.  And now, for good or ill, I serve you.’”  She grew pensive.  “Honestly, that still bothers me sometimes – knowing that Charon had the ability to kill the man he had served so loyally, just like that, in cold blood and without a shred of remorse. But – in the end, we worked it out.

“Buying Charon’s contract that day was the best decision I ever made.  It changed _everything._   Having someone I could trust to watch my back.  Just having someone _with me_ \-- I can’t even put into words how much the loneliness of the Wastes can grind you down.  The struggle, the constant danger …. When Charon came, I stopped surviving and started _living._ Without him, I doubt I’d be here today.  I was ... in a really bad place before I met him,” she said.  “Well, I don’t know if you’ve ever been an adventurer -- “

“It’s been a while,” Arcade admitted.

“It’s a tough life. Charon gave me something solid to hold on to.  There are very few things more solid than Charon.”  She gave a short laugh, then grew serious again.  “Charon saved me in more ways than one.  Without him, I’d be dead or burned out or …. “ She was silent for a moment.  “You know the Wastes seem to turn everything bad somehow -- well, it scares me sometimes to think of how easily I could have ended up just another Raider or warlord.  If it hadn’t been for Charon.”

Arcade was silent.  He was thinking of another time, another place, another man.  _Was that the difference?_ he wondered distantly. _That Samson never had anyone to hold on to?  Why couldn’t I have been enough?_

He shook his head, dismissing the thought, directing his attention back to the tall woman standing before him, leaning on her Fat Man.  The sun was behind her from his angle, gleaming off her blonde hair and Powered Armor, dimming the sharp lines of her features and haloing her with a corona of light; the only parts of her he could see clearly were those piercing blue eyes.   Now he understood what Charon had meant; but instead of being filled with hope, he was only tired and bitter.  _Doesn’t he realize I can’t do that -- will never even get the chance?_   That he could someday strike against Caesar seemed so distant and impossible that he might as well think of plucking the moon down from the sky.

Samantha watched him, strong and confident, as if _nothing_ were impossible to her.  A vast gulf seemed to yawn between them.  He tried to imagine her as she had described herself -- a young, terrified kid just out of the Vault -- and he couldn’t.

“What were the Wastes like when you got out of the Vault?” he asked, searching.

A shadow crossed her face.  “It was … different,” she said slowly. “Wilder, more dangerous.  The settlements were smaller and more isolated – pinpoints of light in a vast, dark sea; some caravans went from town to town, but they were really just a guy with a pack brahmin and a couple of bodyguards.  They tended to get killed a lot.  There wasn’t much trade between settlements; once you got where you were going, you tended to stay there, because it was just too dangerous to do anything else.

“The DC Ruins were the worst; to venture there was to take your life in your hands.  They were full of rubble and overrun with Super-Mutants.   The only way to get around was the old subway -- which was full of ferals.  I still don’t know how I survived,” she said with a laugh.  “I guess it was luck.

“Outside of DC, the land was a lot emptier.  You could still see all the scars of the Great War .... “ 

She drifted off for a moment. Her eyes grew distant.  When she spoke again, it was as if she were speaking to herself, or maybe to the person she had been, the skinny frightened Vault kid of so long ago.

“It’s strange, but as terrible as it was, there was something about it …. It was almost like --- there was a mystery around every corner.  Despite all the loneliness and danger --  every day was somehow different.  I felt like the last person on earth -- but also the first, as if everything had been created just for me, and was lying in wait for me to discover it.  With every step I was mapping untrodden ground, the first person to set foot in a strange new world .... “  She was silent a moment, as if searching her memory. “ _Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive / but to be young was very heaven .... ”_

 _“Not favored spots alone, but the whole earth / that beauty wore of promise,”_ Arcade murmured.  Samantha started; he wondered if she had forgotten he was there.

“Yes.”  She eyed him curiously.  “What is that?”

“Wordsworth.  On the French Revolution.”  He could see the words meant nothing to her. He sighed, suddenly filled with a wistful, stupid longing.  He had felt like that once, too.  _Years ago._

“I wish .... ”

“Yeah?” she asked, and he was somewhat startled to realize he had spoken aloud.  He sighed again, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“I wish I could have seen it with you.”

“I wish you could have too,” she said with feeling.  They were silent for a moment, and in that silence, something passed between them – something he knew he had craved as a man dying of thirst craves rain.  He shifted his weight and drew a frustrated, dissatisfied breath.

“Well.  Water under the bridge, as the saying goes.”  He wasn’t even sure what he meant by that, but it seemed to be enough; Samantha gave a small, sad smile.

Searching for a distraction, Arcade shifted his eyes to Samantha’s peculiar sidearm.  It was clearly an energy weapon -- it had to be, it had no place to load bullets, and a glowing energy cell of some kind shone in the breech -- but he did not recognize it.  Its long slender barrel had three rings around the end but lacked a proper sight, and it had a strange stock and trigger.  

“That rifle there.  It looks like nothing I’ve ever seen before, and I -- well.” He grimaced.  “Let’s just say I’ve seen my share of advanced technology.”

“It’s _not_ like anything you’ve ever seen before.” she said shortly.

“And those drones you’ve got.  Those aren’t Sentry Bots.  Not even close.”

“Nope,” Samantha agreed.    Her reply was curt, but there was an absolute surety in her voice that piqued his interest.

Arcade waited, watching her.

“It’s -- “  She considered, then shook her head and settled for,  “It’s very hard to explain.”

“Where’d you get them?” he asked bluntly. 

She raised one brow.  “Trust me: you’d never believe me if I told you.”  Then she tilted her head and gave a smile.  “Someday, maybe, I’ll take you there.”

It was the wrong thing to say.  The improbability of her ever being able to take him anywhere settled on his shoulders like the weight of the collar.  Samantha seemed to sense it too; she shifted uneasily.

At last, Arcade sighed.  “Well, back to the purpose at hand.  So then I take it your answer is final?”

“You know it is,” she said, more gently than before.  “You’re welcome to stay here tonight if you want.”

“I can’t.  He’ll be ... expecting me back before too long.”  He glanced in the direction of the distant _castrum_. “And what I’m going to tell him .... “

Samantha followed his eyes, and frowned.  “Will you be in trouble?”

Arcade shrugged bitterly, kicking at the ground.  He hissed through his teeth.  “I don’t know.  Probably not, but he’s been so capricious recently that who knows.  It doesn’t matter.  You won’t change your mind, and frankly, I can’t blame you.”  He managed a mirthless laugh. “Hell, all he can do is kill me, right?”

“You know, you don’t have to -- “

“I do.  There are ... people depending on me.”  He thought of Claudia and Daedrus: their lowered eyes, their wary silences.  His mouth twisted. “Even if they don’t know it.”  _Or care_ , a voice whispered.  “If I don’t go back ... it’ll be bad for them.”

Samantha nodded. Her face darkened; she leaned on her Fat Man, looking off toward what remained of the distant Albino Radscorpion nest.  Arcade scraped one foot along the ground again, feeling old and useless.  Finally he gave a slight laugh.

“Of course, here is where I should say some more words about how disappointed Caesar will be and how eager he is to conclude an alliance with a person of your eminent stature.”  Arcade paused.  “He really is, you know. He’d probably even like to conclude an alliance just with you alone, on account of your personal prestige.”

Samantha frowned at him in confusion; Arcade sighed again.

“It’s the kind of prestige that Caesar would love to have for himself.  ‘ _Primus inter pares,_ ’ and all that.  From what I’ve seen and heard, I don’t think there’s anyone else quite like you in the Wasteland.  As far as I can tell -- correct me if I’m wrong -- you don’t actually _rule_ any settlement, except perhaps for Tenpenny Tower, and even then -- “

She shook her head.  “Tenpenny Tower has its own governing council. While I founded the settlement, I’m not its leader.  I have too many things to do.”

Arcade nodded, still searching for something -- he wasn’t sure what. “It’s just ... I see ... “ He halted, somewhat horrified at what he was about to say.

“You see what?”

“It’s just that I see in you something that ... reminds me of someone else, someone I used to know a long time ago.”  He couldn’t believe he was saying this to her: speaking so openly of Samson.  “It makes me wonder ... what could have been if ... “ _If he had been a better person.  If I had been able to make him a better person ...._

“If things were different.  If he were more ... “  _Were more like you._ “If he had been a hero,” he finished at last.

“A hero.”  A strange, strained expression crossed Samantha’s face. 

“Did I say something wrong?”

“Sort of, yeah.”  She shook her head.  “A hero’s not the sort of thing I ever wanted to be. ‘The Hero of the Wastes,’ ‘the Last Best Hope for Humanity,’ ‘the Messiah’ -- that’s all Three Dog, not me.  He’s the one who made all that crap up in the first place.  And honestly, it’s brought me nothing but trouble. People calling me all those stupid names everywhere I went, asking me for help --  How do you turn down  a mother who wants you to find out if her child is still alive? One thing just led to another, and -- “ She sighed again in frustration.  “Here I am, still solving everyone’s problems – when I just want to go home and be with Butch and that’s it.”  She took her helmet from her hip, turned it over in her hands, and gave a short laugh.  “And now I’m whining and feeling sorry for myself.”

Arcade quirked one brow.  “Well, at least you realize it,” he offered, deadpan.

She gave that short, humorless laugh again.  “Apparently so.”

He watched her.  After a moment, he said quietly, “I know you don’t want to be here, Samantha.  I -- If you knew what -- “  He paused, started to say more, then held his tongue.  He could not find a way to put into words the emotions that she and her brought to the surface -- things he hadn’t felt in years, didn’t know he was still capable of feeling. 

“What is it?” she asked him.

It was no use.  Finally, he shrugged. “Never mind.”  He hesitated, then added, somewhat sardonically, “Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave / My heart into my mouth.”

She eyed him.  “You’re not Cordelia.  And God, I hope I’m not Lear.”

 _She knows._   He was vaguely surprised.  In the Legion, only Caesar had any acquaintance with Shakespeare.  He raised one brow again.  “Would it help if I told you I believed in you?”

“No,” she said grimly.  “Everybody believes in me.  That’s my problem.”  She settled herself and visibly straightened her shoulders.  “Anyway, that’s enough of my self-indulgent whining.  Let’s talk about you.”

Arcade gave an enigmatic smile. “Oh, there’s nothing to say about me, Samantha.  I’m Caesar’s slave and personal physician.  That’s it.”

“With Enclave background.” Samantha gave him a level stare. 

 _Damn that Sean._   “What’s an ex-Enclave soldier doing in your retinue, anyway?”

“Long story.  As I said, right now we’re talking about you,” she said.  “How did you end up in Caesar’s Legion?”

“You mean, as Caesar’s slave?” Arcade flared, then drew a breath, steadying himself.  “I was sold,” he said shortly.  His collar rested heavily against his throat.   “It’s not a pleasant memory for me, and not one I care to discuss.”

“I see,” Samantha murmured. “Forgive me.”

Arcade gave a curt nod.  After a moment he relented with a sigh – whether because of Samantha’s obvious curiosity, or because some deeply buried part of him _wanted_ to tell her, he could not have said.  “The man who sold me was named Samson.  He was a Courier out west, in the Mojave Desert.  He was my friend ….  Or so I thought.”  Friends, yes – and Arcade had hoped, wistfully, for more.  Looking back on it now, he wanted to reach back in time and throttle himself for his naïveté.  “I didn’t see it coming,” he added, his jaw tightening, “though in retrospect, I should have.”

“Is he … ”  Samantha gestured around at the encampment.  “Here?”

“Samson?  No.”  Arcade paused.  “Samson was far too much of a loner to stay with the Legion for long.   He moved on after the Battle of Hoover Dam, looking for … I don’t know.  He was always looking for _something.”_   Even now, after everything that had happened, an odd pang gripped Arcade’s heart at the thought of Samson.  He’d been older than Arcade by almost a decade and even a fingersbreadth taller, “ruggedly handsome” to coin a phrase, with brilliant ice-blue eyes in a rough-hewn, weather-beaten face, and long, flowing hair as blue-black dark as Arcade’s own had been shining blonde; broad-shouldered with slim hips, and a smooth, parsimonious efficiency to his movements, like the grace of a deadly predator.  He’d been able to talk anyone he wanted, male or female, into bed.  Arcade had longed for Samson to try him -- for all his yearning, he hadn’t quite found the nerve to approach the man himself -- but Samson had never tried.  “I _heard,”_ he added coolly, “that he died a few years ago -- either killed himself or drank himself to death, possibly both at once.  It wouldn’t surprise me.”

“Over what he did to you?”

Arcade grimaced in disgust.  “Hell, no.  I honestly don’t think he even gave me a second thought after he sold me.  The phrase ‘beneath notice’ about sums it up.  No, even when I knew him, I could tell he was headed for some kind of catastrophe.”   Looking back over the gulf of years, the signs had clearly been there --  Samson had been a deeply unhappy and conflicted man, his near-suicidal recklessness and boiling rage scarcely hiding a frighteningly intense self-loathing.  Anyone who spent even a few hours with Samson could see clearly that he was bent on self-destruction.  Back then, Arcade had found the darkness in him intoxicating; had nurtured all sorts of fantasies about saving him from his demons ….

 _And look where that got you._   Absently, he reached up to pull at the smooth metal collar around his neck.  Even then, he’d known in some part of his mind that his fantasies were just that: fantasies, and particularly infantile ones.  In the old phrase, Samson had been someone who was “mad, bad and dangerous to know.” And yet he had chosen to disregard that danger, because the lure had been so strong.  _Stupid, stupid, stupid…_   He felt his shoulders tense.  “I’m done talking about this,” he said sharply.

Samantha nodded.

Arcade rubbed at his collar again, thinking, then saw Samantha’s eyes going to it.  Quickly, he dropped his hand.  _Too late._   Her brow furrowed.

“That’s not an explosive collar,” she said.  “I’ve seen enough of them to know.”

Arcade felt himself stiffen.  “No, it’s not.”  Samantha kept watching him, waiting patiently for answer.  At length, he sighed.  “It’s a shock collar,” he said tiredly.  “Caesar considers me too valuable.  He won’t take the risk of putting an explosive collar on me.”

“I see.” Samantha studied him.  “I have some skill with electronics.  If you would like, I may be able to deactivate the shock mechanism.”

“You can’t.  If the collar senses tampering….”  He bit his lip; his spine chilled and his hands tingled with remembered pain.  “Let’s just say, it’s not very pleasant.  For me.”

“Oh.”  Her face grew grave.  “I’m sorry.”

Arcade was silent for a moment, then managed a shrug.  “Don’t be.  I’m used to it by now.  As much as anyone ever _can_ get used to it, that is.”

He averted his eyes. There was an uncomfortable pause; the collar seemed to burn around his neck.  Finally, Samantha raised one brow. 

“Want to shoot my Fat Man?” she offered with a lopsided smile.

“Are you serious?”  Arcade was surprised to find that, suddenly, he did want to; very much so, as a matter of fact.   He’d never even held a Fat Man before, had only ever _seen_ one, when a scout brought it in; they’d only had a single Mini-Nuke for it, and when they’d fired it, the weapon had been so worn-out that they’d dropped the payload on one of Caesar’s own centuries.  “Aren’t you worried about wasting ammo?” he asked half-heartedly; all at once it seemed as if he _craved_ to shoot the thing.

Samantha shrugged.  “I have enough.  Here.”   

She held the weapon out to him.  Carefully, he curled his hands around the unfamiliar grips.  It was heavier than it looked; he staggered slightly under its weight.

“You load it like this,” she said, passing him a Mini-Nuke; it was about the size and shape of a football, Arcade saw, with a propeller attached to one end.  “That’s right, slide it down the rails until you hear the chime.  Make sure this is locked, here--“ She showed him and he copied her.

“Like this?”

“Yes, like that.  Now, raise it to your shoulder--just like you saw me do.”

Arcade hefted the weapon, swinging it up until the back end rested on his right shoulder.  It was _heavy,_ especially now that it was loaded; it took some effort to get it up and hold it steady.  “Where’s the sight?” he asked.

“Here,” she said, showing him. 

Arcade squinted down the barrel.  A strange thrill was running through him; the destructive potential he sensed in the weapon was almost breathtaking.  _I am holding in my hands,_ he thought, _a weapon powerful enough to completely vaporize an entire century with one shot._ Something inside him that had been caged for far too long gave a ferocious snarl.  He drew a careful breath, pushing it aside. 

“What should I know before I pull the trigger?”

Beside him, he heard Samantha laugh.  “Very good question.  First, before you fire, make sure the back end is clear.  I like to think of the Fat Man as aiming in two directions, front and back; make sure that whatever’s behind you isn’t something that you care about.  You’re clear, by the way,” she added.

“Got it.”  That thrill was surging through his veins; it was almost intoxicating.  His hands itched to fire.  “Second?”

“Second, the trajectory is short, flat and generally downward.  The Mini-Nuke is a heavy projectile; it won’t travel far without special encouragement.  It’s less of a problem here, because we’re on a hillside, but still: make sure you aim high if you don’t want to drop it at our feet.  I almost killed myself figuring that out,” she said with another laugh.

“Understood.  How’s this?”  He raised the muzzle of the weapon.  “Good enough?”

“A bit higher -- _there,_ ” she told him.  “Now brace yourself -- it kicks like a Brahmin _._ ”  He stepped back with one foot, shifting his weight.  The sensation of _power_ that filled him was almost completely foreign; it went to his head like the alcohol Caesar forbade to everyone but himself.

“Am I good to go now?”

“Yes,” Samantha confirmed.  “Fire at will.”

 _Fire at will._   Arcade drew a long breath.  He sighted down the tube again, feeling excitement and exultation sparkling in his nerves.  He braced himself, and pulled the trigger.

The _chunk_ of the warhead leaving the tube shook him, almost made him stumble; he could _see_ the dark egg-shaped mass hurtling through the air in a flat, low arc, to drop over the edge of the hill onto the ruins below. It fell from sight; there was a pause, and then the ground shook with an explosion so strong it sent tremors up through his body, the sound assaulting his ears.  Chunks of debris hurtled through the air; the small building he had been aiming at seemed to _burst_ outward at the seams, expanding into a rain of rubble. A roaring column of fire rose above the ruins, leafing out into a mushroom cloud of smoke, a heated wind blew past his ears and particles of grit and sand scoured his face.  A thrill of exhilaration filled him -- _I am become death, destroyer of worlds --_ and he felt a mercifully brief urge to shout in triumph.

“Again?” he heard Samantha ask him and he nodded almost before he knew what he was doing.  Another heavy, metallic weight dropped into the mesh half-tube and he heard the chime as it clicked home.  That surge of viciousness filled him again, almost frightening him, and he raised the sight and pulled the trigger, feeling a snarl leap across his teeth.  Again, the dark object went hurtling through the air, to smash down this time into the center of the distant roadway; ancient concrete leapt into the sky in chunks.  _I did that,_ he thought, as the wind washed over him. **_I_** _did that,_ and when Samantha asked, “Again?” he swallowed a growl before he could nod.

A third time he felt the weight of the Mini-Nuke loaded into the back of the Fat Man; he heard the accepting chime as it slid all the way down to lock at the end.  His hands were so tight around the grips that he could feel the pulse in his knuckles.  His heart was thudding in his chest as a sensation of immense power swept through him.  _Caesar,_ he thought.  _Caesar and his entire damned Legion, all his strutting centurions and brutal legionaries and his damned cruel tribunes_ , and he saw their faces in his mind’s eye emblazoned in the fire of hatred, and he pulled the trigger and fired again, for all he was worth.  The kick came and Arcade braced to it, _thrilling_ in it somehow as if the strength he used to press back against it was strength he was throwing directly at the Legion, and he ground his teeth together in the savage meat of triumph as the dark oblong projectile hurtled through the air.  As it dropped down on its trajectory of doom toward the buildings below, his chest was tight with joy and his breath caught in his throat.  The warhead fell down, down on its arcing path until it dropped out of sight ... there was a pause that stretched out to eternity as if the world hung in the balance, and then _BOOM!!!_   The tremendous roar and explosion as the sun dawned a second time and the desert rush of air and heat blasted against his cheeks.  Arcade stood there, basking in the glow of the sun _he’d_ created and thought: _God, if only I could see Caesar and the Legion go up like that for real.  If only I could._

And a moment later, _It was Samantha who did this for me._   His breath was coming too fast, and he felt light-headed, giddy.  It took him a moment to realize she was speaking to him.

“Would you like to fire another one?”

He wanted to.  Everything in him wanted to ... but he knew he had to stop.

“No.”  He put the mesh tube away from him with regret.  “I shouldn’t waste any more of your ammo.  There are enough rads down there now and besides ... ”  _Besides, you might need it soon,_ he wanted to say.  He did not.  The weight of his collar rested around his neck like chains. 

“Anyway, I would love to stay here all day and chat with you,” he said with an ironic shrug, “but ... “  He glanced toward the road again, the dusty track that would lead him away from this brief moment of freedom and power.  “I should be getting back.”  He passed the tube back to her.

“If you’re sure, then,” Samantha said, taking it. 

She paused.  He cocked a brow at her, sensing she wanted to say something.

“Arcade .... ”  Samantha let it trail off.  For a moment there was silence, as she slung the Fat Man over her shoulder again.  The two of them looked away from each other.  The sounds of the Brotherhood outpost came to their ears, borne by the wind, made thin and small by distance.  She looked back at him, her deep blue eyes holding hidden depths. 

“We’ll figure something out,” she said quietly.  “Promise.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets.  “I’m too old for fairy tales, Samantha.”  One hand closed over the scalpel.  “In real life, most people don’t get happy endings.”

“Arcade -- “                                                      

“Like I said, I need to get back.  Caesar will be expecting me. If I don’t return soon -- ” He broke off abruptly and turned away, starting down the road to the Legion encampment.  Behind him, Samantha remained at the crest of the hill, watching him go; but he did not look back.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Author’s notes:** Last chapter of this part.  Parts II and III exist in fragmentary form; now that this chapter is up I will start working on finishing them.  Hopefully I’ll get Part II out before GRRM has WINDS OF WINTER out but no promises!  XD

The song Arcade listens to in this chapter is “What He Wrote” by Laura Marling. It is anachronistic but I felt that the mood of it fit the chapter so well I decided to include it.

Thanks to **LadyKate1** for a truly stellar job betaing!

* * *

 

The road back to Caesar’s _castrum_ felt ten times as long as it had on the way out.  His feet dragged like lead on the broken concrete.  The setting sun shone straight into his eyes as he headed west.  _Into the night,_ Arcade thought to himself with bitter sarcasm.

Thoughts of Samantha filled his mind.  It had been so long since he had had such a conversation with anyone -- a conversation that truly felt like one of equals, where the other person didn’t hold the power to make him writhe on the ground with the twitch of a finger.  The true decency in Samantha’s face was something he had almost forgotten. 

The memory of the Fat Man’s weight sat on his shoulder.  _Power._ He hadn’t realized how much he had missed it.  He’d shut his emotions down for so long that the force with which they came roaring back took him by surprise --  even alarmed him.  The savage joy that had risen within him when he imagined blasting Caesar’s _castrum_ and everyone in it still made him catch his breath.  And she had promised ….

_You know better than that, Arcade.  You’re never going to get out of here.  Not even she can save you -- and you know it._   And he wasn’t sure whether he should thank Samantha or hate her, for waking up a part of him that had been wrapped in numb sleep for years.

Everything in his being rebelled at going back.  The thought filled him with loathing and made his skin crawl.  He felt as if he were slowly submerging himself in a filthy bath from which he had briefly escaped, and in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to turn around and go back to Samantha, to beg her for asylum.  _Why don’t I?_

Yet he knew why not: the collar locked around his neck reminded him with every breath.  And, whether or not Caesar could do anything with it from this distance, Claudia and Daedrus were waiting for him. _They’re depending on you_.  He tried to hold that thought in his head.  It didn’t help much.

As he drew nearer the camp, the lowering darkness fit his mood exactly.  He reached into his pocket and closed his hand over the tiny scalpel there.  _Claudia and Daedrus,_ he reminded himself. _Claudia and Daedrus._

His mood was almost completely black by the time the gates of Caesar’s _castrum_ loomed before him.  Arcade felt himself shudder as he looked at the opening in the wall of spikes that surrounded the camp.  It looked like a hungry maw waiting to devour him.  Even the _sky_ over the camp seemed permanently dark.

The two sentries on duty aimed their pila at him as he approached.  “Halt!  Who goes there!?” called one. Arcade recognized him as a young recruit, Decius; and he thought the other one’s name was Marcus.  One of them blonde and the other had darker hair, but other than that, they could have been twins.  Arcade shoved his hands deeper in his pockets.

“Caesar’s personal physician, returning from my mission to the camp of the Lone Wanderer.”

The strict posture of the two guards slouched into insolence at his announcement.  Marcus, the dark-haired one, snorted. “You’d better hurry.  Caesar’s been in a meeting with the tribunes for maybe half an hour now, and I don’t think he’ll be too pleased that you took so long to get back.”  He smirked unpleasantly.

Arcade quirked one brow and summoned his own hauteur.  “That’s fine.  I’ll simply tell him two lowly Recruits held me up and harassed me at the gate.”

Marcus’s smirk darkened into a scowl, but it was the sudden chill on Decius’s face that got to Arcade; for a moment, he felt ashamed of himself.  He knew all too well the brutalities to which the Recruits were subjected, and the thought that he had summoned those ghosts to haunt two young men who were just showing off made his stomach churn.  _This damned Legion,_ he thought tiredly.

Marcus gestured curtly with his spear. “Just get in there, Profligate wretch.”

Arcade shrugged.

“And a pleasant day to you too,” he said.  The two guards stepped out of his way and let him proceed into the _castrum._

* * *

 

As Arcade made his way through the camp, he seemed to see the whole thing again with new eyes.  The tattered beige tents, the training grounds, the arrogant legionaries strutting with their hands on their swords, the slaves shuffling dispiritedly about their tasks.  Suddenly it struck him as almost unendurable, _unbearable._   His hand closed again on the scalpel. 

He passed down one of the broad center lanes of beaten earth, among the blocks of _contubernia_ , to the large assembly area in the middle of the camp.  The dais where he and the others had sat last night was at one end of it and Caesar’s large command tent loomed at the other end, waiting.  Arcade wanted nothing more than to turn and leave, but he steeled himself.  _After all_ , he thought grimly, _I know my duty._

The chief of the praetorians, a man named Licinus, met him at the door.  Licinus was a large, generally humorless man with deeply bronzed skin, jet-black hair, and deep-set dark eyes; Arcade had often thought he looked more like an ancient Roman than Caesar himself.  “You’re late,” the praetorian said curtly.  “The rest of the tribunes are already inside and the briefing’s commenced.  Caesar was asking about you.”

Arcade only nodded.  Drawing a breath, he stepped past the guard, brushing the hangings aside.  Caesar looked up to greet him, his bulk sprawled as usual in a camp chair, with the rest of his chieftains gathered before him.

“An’ where’ve you been, _iuvenis?_ ” he slurred.  “Startin t’ think y’ weren’t comin.”

“My apologies, Lord Caesar,” he said.  “Samantha kept me later than I had originally intended.”

“Well ... don’ make a _habit_ of it,” the _imperator_ slurred with what was probably meant as a good-humored laugh.  “Jus’ in time f’r th’ _good_ part anyway.  We were ... w’r discuss’n what we’d do wh’n the Wasteland c’... c’... c’pitulates t’ us.  ‘Relius, y’ had s’m good ideas, didn’ ya?”

He waved his one good arm vaguely in the direction of the tribune.

Aurelius swelled with pride as he answered.  “You know what I think, Lord Caesar.  The first thing we should do is to go straight into the ruins of Washington DC.  Round up some of these Wasteland profligates as slaves, put them to work excavating the ruins of the capital. Within a year, we’ll have the White House for our headquarters.  Then we start pushing outward.  Once we’ve reduced the other Wasteland settlements to tributaries, the entire Eastern seaboard will be ours for the taking.  Alerio!” He stabbed one thick finger at the unassuming man.  “Your _frumentarii_ have spoken of a ‘Commonwealth’ to the north.  Bringing them to heel should be our next goal.  Show them and their ‘Institute’ the might of Caesar’s Legion.” His face twisted into a brutish grin as he clearly relished the prospect of future victories.

Caesar narrowed his one good eye at Aurelius.

“’Kay,” was all he said.  “’N you, ‘Lerio?”

Alerio regarded Caesar with a distinct lack of emotion.  That little youth stood behind him, dark eyes haunted.  At length, the _frumentarii_ leader settled back in his chair. 

“Aurelius has some interesting ideas but they’re somewhat premature.  It will take time to consolidate your control over the Wasteland -- get them used to knowing that they are now under the Legion.  In the meantime, I can send my agents north to infiltrate the Commonwealth. Let us be sure we know the lay of the land there before we begin our conquest.”

Caesar snorted.  “Think y’ -- y’r spies c’n crack this Institute, ‘Lerio?”

Alerio gave a cool nod.  “I see no reason why they should not.  Like Aurelius, I find it almost impossible to believe that the Commonwealth will be able to stand against us, if we move correctly.  Are we not your Legion, Lord Caesar?”

_Christ above,_ Arcade thought mordantly. _They’re so obscenely confident, they’re already making plans for their next move -- or are they?_  Aurelius of Phoenix was a thug and nothing more, Caesar’s attack dog.  But Alerio and especially Vulpes were much more intelligent.  _Don’t they know … ?_   He stole a glance at Vulpes, but the Legate’s face was expressionless behind his black sunglasses.  As much as he detested the man – a deep and mutual loathing that went back a long way -- he respected Vulpes’s intelligence, in the same way that he respected the cold reptilian cunning of a Night Stalker.  _But if they do know, then why don’t they say something -- unless of course, they think there’s no chance that speaking up will do any good._ His gaze rested on the boy behind Alerio.  The boy met his eyes briefly, and then looked down.  _Or have their own reasons for remaining silent._

Caesar gave that awful, slurred laugh again.  “W’ll s’d, ‘Lerio,” he said.  “W’ll s’d indeed.  ‘N you, Inculta?  Let’s hear it, Savage Fox.  Whaddaya got f’r us?”

Those dark sunglasses lifted to study Caesar; Arcade could only guess at the expression in the hazel eyes behind them. “Regarding your alliance with the Profligates,” he began, choosing each word precisely in his high, reedy voice.

Caesar glowered at him. “Y’s?”

Vulpes hesitated for a moment, clasping his hands behind his back.   Arcade wondered what thoughts were going through his mind; Vulpes had borne the brunt of Caesar’s increasing instability and unwillingness to brook contradiction more than once, though not to the extent Arcade had.  For a brief moment he felt a flash of unwanted sympathy.

“Certainly,” Vulpes said, “I believe that an alliance with the Profligates will be advantageous.  Should we settle here and bend them to our will, that would put us in a position as strong or stronger as we had back in California -- and with no NCR to challenge us.  We would be very close to the ancient capital of the Old World, and able to explore the ruins at our leisure in search of secrets to give us strength.

“Aurelius and Alerio have spoken of turning north to strike against this ... Commonwealth, as a first step for an eventual conquest of the entire Eastern Seaboard. Such a venture would be truly an ambitious goal worthy of the name of Caesar.  This area would prove an advantageous launching point for such a conquest, and the strength of these Profligates added to our own would give us a large advantage. Such are my thoughts, Lord Caesar.”

Arcade, who had been listening carefully, had noticed that Vulpes had never once actually _said_ he thought this was a good or even achievable idea. He thought with inward cynicism that Caesar might have noticed as well, for the old man snorted, and rumbled in his slurred voice, “V’ry ... _w’ll spoken,_ Inculta. But as y’ c’n see, we got one more person t’ hear from.”  He turned to look at Arcade.  “ _Iuvenis._ We b’n ... doin a lot o’ talkin’ ‘thout you.  So, now that we’re ... g’nna have ‘n alliance ... what’d she say?  Y’ have some good news f’r us?”  And that single eye drilled into him.

Even after all this time, Arcade felt a chill at Caesar’s one baleful eye gazing at him.  It was an automatic reflex by now, one that he couldn’t shake.  But under that, he had to admit to a certain savage pleasure at what he was about to say.  He crossed his arms over his chest, as if to protect himself, feeling the scar tissue on his back pull.

“Not to rain on anyone’s parade,” he said coldly, “but about that offer of alliance: I have Samantha’s answer.  The gist of it was – _ahem.”_ He cleared his throat.  “’None of us have any interest in doing business with someone like Caesar.  We will resist him to our dying breaths.  Because it is better to die on one’s feet than to live on one’s knees…or worse.’”  He paused.  “Or words to that effect.”

His voice died away into a stunned silence.  Arcade ran his eyes over the room, taking in the reactions.  Outrage had spread across Aurelius of Phoenix’s face, turning his heavy features red and blotchy.  Enraged, he burst out, “How _dare_ she, this Profligate female!? When great Caesar does her the honor of offering an alliance with her -- “

As Aurelius ranted, Arcade glanced toward Alerio and Vulpes Inculta.  Alerio was expressionless and unreadable as ever, but Arcade detected a hint of -- something he couldn’t make out -- in Vulpes’s face.  The reactions from both of them convinced him that they had expected this outcome.

Caesar, on the other hand, clearly hadn’t.  He looked -- almost _hurt,_  Arcade thought.  _Did he seriously think this had any chance of succeeding?_

“’Relius, silence,” he slurred, with a gesture of his good arm.  His brow furrowed.  “Can’ be.  ‘S she not understan’ what we’re offerin’?  _Iuvenis,_ ” he slurred with growing anger, “Y’ mus’ not ‘ve .... not ‘ve said it right.  Doesn’ she understand?  She hasn’t seen -- “

“My impression was,” Arcade said, “that she felt she’d seen more than enough of your operation to make an informed decision.”

“No.  No,” Caesar was shaking his head.  “Y’ mus’ ‘ve said it wrong, _iuvenis._   Didn’tcha -- didn’tcha tell her wha’ ‘vantages it’d bring with us?  How much we had t’ ... t’ give the wasteland?”

He still sounded hurt, Arcade thought.  _It’s as if he can’t believe that anyone is capable of rejecting an alliance with Caesar’s Legion._   Arcade felt his shoulders tighten.  “I honestly don’t think it would matter.  She made it clear that she felt the disadvantages far outweighed any advantages an alliance might bring.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Alerio nod to himself.  Vulpes’s lips were pressed into a narrow line.  Caesar’s ruined face contorted like a child being told “no” for the first time.

“But ... bu’ I don’ understan’.  She can’ possibly think tha’... that it’s not worth it, havin’ an alliance w’ us.”  His brow furrowed more deeply, and anger began to creep into his expression.  “Wha’d y’ say t’ her, _iuvenis?_   Wha’d y’ say t’ her t’ make her think -- “

Arcade shook his head dourly.  “I didn’t have to _say_ anything.  She could see everything plainly enough for herself.  She’d decided by the time I got there, there was nothing _I_ could have said to change her mind.”

That anger was beginning to bloom into rage now.  “But ... but doesn’ sh’ _see_ wh’ we c’d do f’r her?  Her ‘n the Was’elan....  If you ... ‘F y were t’ go back t’ her, _iuvenis,_ ” he demanded doggedly.  That single eye blazed. “ G... g’wan back t’her.  Tell ‘er that we’ll ... we c’n pay f’r an alliance.  Gold, food, slaves, wh... whatever sh’ wants.  Make ‘er -- ‘F y’ were t’ make her an offer she c’dn’ refuse -- “

“No!” Arcade insisted -- and he realized he was shouting.  He didn’t know how it had happened, but suddenly, he felt as if he had been pushed past endurance.  _I will get this out, dammit, by Mithras I will say exactly what I feel --_  Something about the time he had spent with Samantha fired him and put steel in his spine.  “I said, no!  Don’t you understand?”  he threw at Caesar, not caring.  “Samantha will never, never, _never_ negotiate with you -- why the hell _should_ she?  What the hell does your Legion have to offer _her_?  A position as an officer’s slave-wife _if_ she’s lucky?  She -- _they -_ \- may not know the phrase “ _hostis humani generis_ ” but you can bet that’s just what they see you as.”  He gestured furiously at the assembled chieftains.  “They see you as a pack of brigands because that’s exactly what you _are._   You’ve read all the classical literature; why don’t you try some Machiavelli, for Christ’s sake?  Samantha and those with her will fight you to their dying breaths because to them, _death_ is preferable to belonging to your Legion!” 

Aurelius of Phoenix growled in fury, his angry flush deepening to brick red.  “Lord Caesar, will you stand for this slave’s insolence?” he demanded.  “This is _unendurable_ **.**   Let me beat him **.** _I’ll_ beat that arrogance out of him--“

Caesar waved at him.  “Quiet, Aurelius.”  The chieftain fell silent, though he was seething.  Caesar looked back at Arcade, frowning.  “If I were to ... t’ offer t’ make this S’mantha my empress,” he began.

“ _No!”_ Arcade almost shouted.  “You don’t _get_ it!  She won’t join you for _anything!_ She has too much integrity -- too much _pride_ in herself -- too much _honor -_ **-** “  He broke off, breathing hard, clenching his fists at his sides.

Caesar’s frown deepened; the hurt was still there, and it was growing. _Good_ , Arcade thought viciously.  At last, he tried, “ _Iuvenis_ \-- “

“Don’t you ‘ _iuvenis’_ me,” Arcade snarled.  “Negotiate with her, don’t negotiate, offer her marriage, do whatever. You always do anyway.  But know this:  I just gave you the _truth_ **.**    The truth that nobody else in this goddamned parliament of fools will give you.  They’re all too afraid of you, or too brainwashed.  So … ”  He shrugged; his anger ebbed away, leaving him exhausted and bitter.  “There it is.  Do whatever you want to me.  I don’t care.  Nothing you do to me will change anything, anyway.”

Caesar was silent for a long time; Arcade could read almost nothing on that ruined face.  At last, the other man nodded. “And now, you’ve just r’minded me why it is that I keep you, _iuvenis.”_

Arcade said nothing.  His throat was closed tight; there was nothing to say -- or perhaps, too much.  Caesar studied him for a moment longer, his brow furrowed, as if searching for something, but Arcade had nothing to give him -- at least, nothing he was either able or willing to give.  At last the imperator turned away. 

“W’ll, can’ ... be angry with ya, y’ jus ... said what I asked you to,” Caesar slurred.  “Y’ did good, _iuvenis,_  an’ y’ll ... be r’warded.”

“Sure,” Arcade said sourly, unable to stop it from slipping out.  But Caesar didn’t seem to notice, even though Aurelius looked even more scandalized than before, and Vulpes’s white face paled even further behind his sunglasses.  Caesar gave that harsh, choking laugh.

“I do b’lieve that y’r right.  Negotiat’n isn’ in order here … besides,” he gave that slurred laugh again, “Caesar does not low’r ‘imself to negotiation anyway.  ‘M I right, boys?” he asked, looking around at his chieftains for confirmation.  They all laughed with him, an unsteady, nervous tittering.  “No.  Negotiation ... not gonna win this one.  Time to ... t’ c’nsider other methods.”  His single good eye roamed the tent, and then fixed on the chief of his _frumentarii_.  “’Lerio.”

“Yes, my lord?”

“Gonna need ... t’ speak wi’ you.  Rest of ya ... you too.  Need t’ ... do s’me thinkin’ about this.  _You_.”  His single eye turned back to Arcade.  “Y’r dismissed.  G’wan back t’ yer tent.  I’ll send f’r you if I need you.”  That eye narrowed.  “Git!”

Sick at heart, Arcade managed a sardonic bow in response, unacknowledged by Caesar.  Then he fled the tent into the night outside.

* * *

 

  
As Arcade stumbled out into the darkness, he was almost shaking with a terrible, frustrated anger.  He reeled around the big command tent to his own little shelter at the back; he barely had the strength to draw the flap before he collapsed into his camp chair.  He just sat there, striving for calm.  His mind was filled with Samantha, her strength, her sureness, her power.

“God damn it,” he muttered through his teeth.  He drew a breath, then another, trying to push back the bleak sensation that was filling him, but to no avail.  He buried his head in his hands for a moment, then pushed back his chair so that he was leaning back, and stared at the medicine chest he kept under his camp table.

Along with a limited supply of chems, Arcade had a stash of liquor that Caesar allowed him to keep -- strictly for medicinal purposes, of course.  He knew many of the other officers had something similar even though, to them, it was strictly forbidden.  Sometimes he thought that was the one facet of Legion life that he found the most intolerable: just the complete and utter hypocrisy of it all.  _The chems, the boys … Christ, the whole Legion is just rotten from top to bottom._ Vulpes Inculta, he thought, was perhaps the only one of Caesar’s chieftains that partook of neither; he had no _puer,_ at least that Arcade had observed, and he had never spotted any of the tell-tale signs of chem usage in the man either. 

_Which may explain **why** he’s the way he is, _Arcade thought sardonically.  _No way he could be that much of a prick if he were getting any sort of relaxation regularly._ He had often wondered about Vulpes and his slave wife Vipsania ….

He reached under the table and took the bottle of whiskey from his medicine chest; then he retrieved a glass and, sitting at his battered camp table, methodically began to pour himself shots.  He had rarely indulged even in his pre-Legion days and not at all since his captivity; he couldn’t afford to lose control – or risk getting caught. Now, though – now, he no longer cared.

_If Caesar finds you drunk,_ a little cautionary voice murmured in the back of his head.  Arcade hissed through his teeth, dismissing it.  _So what?_ The chance of that was minimal; and furthermore, he was … _reasonably_ certain … that Caesar would be willing to look the other way if he did, though less certain than he had once been.  But even if he didn’t ….  _Screw it.  I need this tonight._

 He reached out and clicked on the radio, hoping to drown out the sounds of the camp around him, yearning vaguely for Three Dog’s fiery self-assurance.  There was something incredibly bracing about the DJ’s confidence; perhaps it was just the fact that the disc jockey seemed to see things so clearly and had never had to make compromises or accommodations to the existing order.  He sensed the same thing in Samantha: that she was just so strong that she didn’t _need_ to make compromises, to betray her fundamental sense of self, as….

He quickly gulped down a shot, wincing as the whiskey burned a fiery trail down his throat.  It wasn’t Three Dog on the radio; instead, a woman’s voice mourned out of the darkness, singing a melancholy song of loss and defeat:

_Forgive me, Hera, I cannot stay_  
He cut out my tongue, there is nothing to save  
Love me O Lord, he threw me away  
He laughed at my sins, in his arms I must stay….

 Arcade left it on. It suited his mood.

Another shot, and then he pushed the bottle and glass aside, burying his head in his hands.

_I could help her_.

But what could _he_ do?  He was no hero, no Wasteland Messiah.  He was an aging, broken man, already past his prime: a slave, powerless and long since defeated.

_Samantha … God, Samantha …._   He could see her, standing on the hill, alone and commanding; lit up by the sunlight and almost shining.  The confidence, the _strength_ he had seen in her, the absolute self-assurance .…

He’d seen something similar in Samson once -- in the years years ago, before time had settled on his shoulders like chains, when he still had believed it was possible for a person to change the world.  _Goddamn it, I know better than that now.  I know better than that._ He passed one hand over his eyes.  It didn’t help.  Something in him that had not been crippled by servitude was responding to the image of her, of the Messiah, like a compass needle orienting toward magnetic north. 

_She wants me to be better than I am._

No she didn’t, he told himself.  He seriously doubted Samantha had given him a second thought after leaving the camp.  That wasn’t the way the world worked, and he was old enough by now to know that.  _I know better…._

The woman’s voice mourned on, filling the inside of the tiny tent:

_He wrote: I am broke, please send for me  
But I am broken too, and spoken for, do not tempt me…._

Arcade’s shoulders shook.  Behind his hands, he felt dampness trickling down his face.

_Where were you years ago, Samantha?_   _Where were you then?  Why didn’t you come to me when I was young and strong? When I still believed --  I would have followed you anywhere, if only I had known ...._

But it was too late now.  Too late for him, too late for her, and too late for the Legion, this hellish carnival of the damned. 

He folded his arms on his desk and laid his head on them, tears burning on his cheeks. Outside, the sounds of the Legion encampment rattled on -- the harsh tramp of marching soldiers, the sentry’s challenge and response, the sound of a soldier shouting at a slave, the clash of arms drifting from the training ground.

Night lay heavy over the legion encampment.  To the east, the Brotherhood of Steel knights and paladins continued to man the small outpost, watching unceasingly against the brooding tents of the legion. Samantha had taken her leave early that afternoon and her small party, with Darius in tow, was making its way across the Wasteland, under the twinkling stars of the heavens, back to the tall dark spire of Tenpenny Tower.  Beyond lay the whole of the Wastes -- Megaton, Rivet City, The Republic of Rosie, Oasis, Underworld, the Citadel, Little Lamplight, Canterbury Commons, the realm of Crystal’s Raiders.  Even now, plans were being laid and people were being dispatched. Samantha’s radioed warning had been transmitted.  The Legion would not find the Wasteland unprepared.

_End of Part I._

 


End file.
